


Awakenings

by cortchuzska



Series: The Sands of Time [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Family Dynamics, Father-Daughter Relationship, House Martell, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2017-11-07 23:35:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 25
Words: 53,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/436673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cortchuzska/pseuds/cortchuzska
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Kill the boy and let the man be born.</em><br/>Doran and Oberyn, in the aftermath of Elia's death.<br/>Oberyn brings home his daughters.<br/>Ellaria Sand first steps (and missteps) on stage<br/>Arianne's nameday<br/>Chapter 22:    Oberyn as a good-brother; or Martells' marriage scenes<br/>Chapter 23: Where Oberyn commits seriously, after a fashion – or I'd better say in <em> his</em> fashion.<br/>Chapter 24: Fluffy as it can get. Who says snakes aren't <em>cute</em>?<br/>Chapter 25: Doran has the last word, as his usual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dorne

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Пробуждение](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8231551) by [2angelwolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/2angelwolf/pseuds/2angelwolf), [badweather](https://archiveofourown.org/users/badweather/pseuds/badweather), [Mormeril](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mormeril/pseuds/Mormeril), [shiannan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiannan/pseuds/shiannan), [Vemoro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vemoro/pseuds/Vemoro)



> There are two very different, almost opposite Oberyn; before and after Elia's death - even if the only one whose reputation is known is the first.
> 
> “He travelled in the Free Cities, learned the poisoner's trade and arts darker still..He had studied at the Citadel...soldiered in the Disputed Lands forming his own company.”..begotten bastard girls from 4 very different women
> 
> After “Seldom left Dorne”, a long term relation with Ellaria and 4 daughters. Likely, he claimed his eldest children only then - Obara says she wasn’t at the Water Garden for long, so she was about 10 when she went there.
> 
> What happened him? Did he go through a personal breakdown? How did he recover?
> 
> Besides, I have a notion than Doran is really the toughest brother. “Unbent, unbowed, unbroken.” The oldest, the last.
> 
> Here is the outcome of my musing and surmising.

A skylark was singing in the bluest sky Dorne could boast. A glorious day, splendidly, mockingly so. The pavilion flaps were lowered; the air within stifling.

“The children were on Robert Baratheon's way to the Throne.” His voice, though collected, was thick with sorrow.

“Our sister just got in the way, when they butchered them. How unconsidered of her.” Oberyn noted wryly.

“Casualties of war. As much they would have us to believe.” Doran waited for the lump in his throat to melt away. It didn't. He lent the letters to his brother. “News from our friends at court. Their reports are quite grisly.”

“Who did it?” Oberyn riffled restlessly the sheets.

“Names have been made. People of no consequence. Read ahead.”

Oberyn stared at the parchment. “Why would they need to do _that_?”

“Men are ambitious, and they seek the new King's favour. Many changes were made, and Robert has always been open-handed, even with what is not lawfully his. Were they awarded lands, titles, marriages, offices at court, war spoils, handsome prizes?”

“Robert loves too much to fancy himself a freedom fighter, a defender of his lady's honour to be as stupid as to order or blatantly condone children murdered and raped women on his behalf.”

“Yet, I'm quite sure he can turn a blind eye on people who rid him of major inconveniences.” Doran sourly countered. He had foreseen Oberyn would have gone mad with grief and his forced, brooding calm disquieted him.

Oberyn gasped. “Clegane had been knighted by Rhaegar himself not a year ago, as I recall.”

“Could that alleged honour bond stop him from killing them?”

“At least so-called honour would have bound him to grant them a clean death, and he had no business with Elia. She was nothing to Robert Baratheon, nor on his way to the Throne, why should he care for her death?”

“Elia fought back, and struggled for her children.”

“As it was only natural. I'm told Gregor Clegane is large enough to overcome effortlessly a frail woman such as our sister, a little girl, a babe.”

“Men are ambitious, and seek for the King's favour. Tywin Lannister values discipline above madness, and has never stricken me as the lax kind. Unbridled as they might be, he would not let his bannermen get away with flouting his biddings, nor go too far beyond his orders.” Doran purposely paused. “Did they lose his favour, did he kick his unruly curs out of his hall?”

Oberyn keen eyes pierced him, and Doran went on. “He still keeps in his kennels his pet monsters, fiery beasts to be unleashed whenever he sees fit to rain terror on his enemies.”

“They did how they were bid, like the good little faithful dogs they are.” Hissed Oberyn. “A tap on their head, some meaty bones is reward enough to them. A snap of his fingers, and they will obey their master.”

“Lannister needs to curry the new King's favour, after being so long best friend with the previous one, and his Hand for years; and the man is nothing if not ambitious. The Handship did not fulfil his hunger for power; he yearned to make a Queen of his daughter.”

“He is not soft-hearted as our new King and never shrunk back from butchery. He spoke the words. Who else had a shred of reason to resent Elia?”

“Your question stands; still, we have no proofs.”

“Do you need more evidence?” Oberyn already somber countenance darkened. “I can see a message in it. Our tilt has been called, and we must rise to the challenge.”

“If it is a challenge, Lannister is not a man to issue it lightly. A war, now, would be our undoing. His army is still fresh and unscathed by real battles he never engaged.” Doran smoothed out the parchments Oberyn had crumpled up. “Tywin knows how to nurse a grudge and has never been willing to forget a slight.”

“As you are, brother?” Oberyn taunted, and shot him a disdainful glare.

Doran stifled a huff at his brother's outburst. “Punishing Elia did not suffice. He is working to destroy us, our grievance could be a threat to him, but we are not the Reynes, nor the Tarbecks. He is not the only one to understand the best won battle is the one you don't have to wage. I won't step into his trap.”

“I would. Just to take to the hell with me as many as I can manage, and woe betide everyone who should try to claim his prey. I'm not an easily ensnared viper, and they would meet my fangs.” Oberyn let out a loud, grim laughter. “Would you bend the knee to a new reign of justice and peace, rooted in the blood of innocent children and raped women? I'd sooner have a taste of theirs.”

“Such are the ways of war, Oberyn. Such is conquer; would you call for another? To overthrow the Baratheons, the Lannisters the Starks, the Tullys, the Arryns of the Vale: a feat impossible to accomplish. Another bloodbath, to no avail. That's not how Dorne can hope to win. If you ever succeeded, who would you put on the Throne? A child cannot hold it through this hard times. ”

“I couldn't care less whose ass sits the Iron Throne.” He stood up slamming his hands on Doran's foldable desk, his forearms tensed as he leant forward. “Only for whom were laid before it. What will you do, Doran? Just close your eyes?” Oberyn stared him out, but Doran did not avert his gaze. “War is the only answer.”

“Can't you see it? Tywin already cornered us to just one option. Never do what your foes expects of you; I'm not inclined in the least to pliantly comply and grant his wishes. If he seeks for war sudden outbreak, he shall settle instead for a long, wary peace I'll give him. I'm not going to dance to the _Rains of Castamere_ tune.”

“I had in mind another sort of dance. Of swords and spears. No music could be sweeter than the hope for slaying them in battle.”

“Too clean a death.” Muttered Doran. “Chancy scheme, brother. ”

His weak reply was too meek to get Oberyn to side him.

“Do you have any better?” His brother was simmering with pent-up anger; he tore open a tent slit, and left in a blaze of wrath. “I won't sit here wailing like a useless woman, nor plea the winner for mercy.”

He heard horses whining and hooves hasty clops, and Oberyn shouting harsh orders. The din quickly died off in the desert, and a gentle breeze stirred inside.

 _Our sister was one,_ thought Doran, _and she never did._


	2. Sunspear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I love you. I loved her.” Doran paused. “But I love Dorne more. I won't wage a war we can't win.”

'When you are worn out, when in doubt, when you can't see clearly in your own mind – Doran, you will find your answers at the Water Gardens. There and nowhere else. ' His mother's words often came to his mind, since he had become Prince of Dorne.

\--o--

“You are getting better. You should recover at the Water Gardens. They'll soothe your nerves.”

“The Water Gardens?”

“You should consider marriage, settle and father heirs. Get yourself some future. It will do you good.”

“A marriage. To soothe my nerves.” He listlessly repeated.

“You haven't had a woman - nor a man – since then. It's not healthy: it's not _you_. You should get someone. Have some fun. It will soothe your nerves.”

“Fun?” Oberyn waved a thin hand. “It will. I don't want my nerves to be soothed.”

Doran felt a knot tying his throat.

“You went against my orders.”

“I did.” Oberyn sullenly replied.

“Were you not my brother, you would be into a snake pit.” sorrowed Doran.

“I would be into a snake pit.” He agreed in a matter-of-fact tone.

“You are my brother, Oberyn.”

Oberyn stared blankly beyond the latticed window.

“I am.” He answered flatly after a while. “Your only sibling.”

'Unbowed, unbent, unbroken. ' If not broken, Oberyn Martell was very close to it. Doran rose and pressed a hand on his shoulder.

“I love you. I loved her.” Doran paused. “But I love Dorne more. I won't wage a war we can't win.”

\--o--

“I could have protected her.”

“You were not in King's Landing. Stop torturing yourself.”

“If I had been there.” He went on in a whisper.

“You could only get yourself killed too.”

“Then I would have died: but not alone.” Oberyn gave a shrug, and grimly grinned.

“Only a fool worries about what he cannot cure.”

“I don't care if I shouldn't feel like that; but I do, Doran; I do.” He uttered in a cracked voice.

Oberyn lowered his head, wearied by his unusually lengthy speech.

“You have always been overconfident for your own good, Oberyn. The sooner you realize you can't be everywhere; you can't always have it your way, you can't do everything you would like to, no matter how much you crave for it, the better... We are to play with the tokens we are given.”

“We are Princes. A Prince can choose how to play. A Prince is responsible. For what he did, and for what he did not.”

“A Prince must choose wisely, and know what he can and what he can't do.” Doran looked sadly at him. “You can't protect everyone you wish to protect. Sometimes, they are the ones you wish to protect most.” He ended in a stifled voice. “The ones you love. Your kin.”


	3. Doran

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The arms of House Martell display the sun and spear, the Dornishman’s two favored weapons but of the two, the sun is deadlier._

The Princess's sudden death, Rhaegar's madness, Robert's rebellion, the war, King's Landing Sack, Elia and her children, the Targaryens overthrown, the Baratheon's new reign, upheavals ensuing in Dorne, and his own brother – the only sibling he had left now – in their lead. A nightmarish unending chain, Doran had to cope with, with no respite.

Prince Oberyn was so beguilingly popular the Dornish would have followed him cheering loudly his name into whichever of the Seven Hells he had fancied to lead them; had he had his own way, that's where Dorne would most certainly wind up, and that's what Doran was desperately trying to avert, his efforts earning him only scorn and outright hostility.

He dared not trust any Dornishman. Areo Hotah, his wife's Norvoshi guard, was the only one he could entrust with such a mission. He would strip her of him too, another slight she had to suffer from the Prince of Dorne. Many things the Lady Mellario had forgotten, more she had had to forgive, and now she was concealing her disappointment. Doran's grip on Dornish unruly lords and fierce populace was looser and looser; he had already lost a sister, and would soon add his own brother to his losses list; and now he was losing her too.

An arranged marriage is a seed needing water to grow, it's known; more so a love one, as Doran was soon aware; but he had long forsaken watering his own garden, and Dornish sun was harsh, ruthless, and unforgiving.

As the Prince of Dorne himself was to be.

“I need his obedience. No unnecessary violence.”

“What if Prince Oberyn fights back?”

Doran knew he would.

“Do what is needed, captain.” The Prince waved him off with a final gesture.

He thumped his longaxe butt on the marble floor in obeisance, swung round, and left him.

Areo Hotah was the one he felt closer. He was sworn to protect, serve, obey. Simple vows for a simple man.

A Dorne Prince's duties, the duties his mother bequeathed him, were no different: to protect the _children_ , serve _Dorne_ , obey the _King_. Simple vows for simple men.

_Let others have it so._

Doran Nymeros Martell, Prince of Dorne, was not a simple man.

_Let them see how I bow to King's Landing, my bent knee, and my broken heart._

_Oberyn has always been too fickle and fiery to be trusted._

Doran was a deliberate man.

_I will endure the Seven Kingdoms, Dorne, my own family scorn, if it is what it takes._

_I will see to revenge alone._

\--o--

Areo snared Oberyn, seized him with minimal bloodshed, knocked him down with his axe flat, did not kill him, and took him back to Sunspear. At least, he did not kill him _on the spot._

After days of deadly slumber, he was told that his brother was awake. Oberyn looked at him with glassy feverish eyes, so different from Oberyn's vivid own, reminding him of Mors's and Olyvar's ones, when they were dying. Doran took his hand, and he didn't recognize him. He had always hoped health, hardiness, strength, liveliness all his siblings lacked were given back to Oberyn in spades. 'He won't survive either. '

Doran swore. 'But I will. Arianne will. Dorne will. Will be there a Prince in Dorne, he will never forget, and never forgive. '

Oberyn lived, against all odds; he recognized him, he began speaking again, and fever slowly lowered. His eyes, though, were still dull; every morning, when Doran went to his little brother, they had the same conversation; and he wondered if Oberyn was still Oberyn, or if the devil-may-care, flighty, restless haughty Prince was dead for good, leaving just an empty shell of the brother he had known.

\--o--

He waited long, wary to ask again what he had been demanding for days, and whose only answer had been a silent smirk. By any means, Oberyn had lost to him; yet he felt he had not yet earned his victory. His brother, though broken, would not give up, would not bow before him, would not bend to his will.

“Promise me you won't attempt anything rash.”

This time, Oberyn nodded. “Nothing.”

Doran closed his eyes, stifled a relieved sigh, and resisted the urge to tighten his hands in approval around his brother's shoulders, afraid to add any word who could shatter Oberyn's brittle self, only to hear him whispering later under his voice.

“Rash. As if I knew what is, and what is not.”

Doran ordered a guard always inside his brother's room, in fear he could harm himself. A watcher's constant company did not much to improve Oberyn's mood.


	4. The Water Gardens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Silence is a prince’s friend. Words are like arrows. Once loosed, you cannot call them back._   
> 

“I hope you're feeling better.”

“I can ride now. At least, without fainting too soon.”

His first ride from Sunspear, a short one, with Aero Hotah escorting him – or watching over him, he couldn't say; likely both, if he knew Doran, since casually a couple of men joined them from time to time, and out of Sunspear there were a score of them – ended up shamefully in Aeroh's arms hauling him up like a baby, a little more than halfway to the Water Gardens. A litter took him there.

\--o--

“How many men are guarding the Water Gardens, Aero?”

“Thirty as usual, my Prince.”

“Double them.”

“Must I get Prince Oberyn back in Sunspear, as soon as he recovers?”

“Better keep him there. Far from Sunspear, and out of troubles. He is not to see anyone, without my leave. No letters as well.”

“My lady Mellario will not like having him there.”

“He won't like it either, I suppose.”

\--o--

Doran was at the Water Gardens pointedly to pay visit to his lady wife, allegedly there to recover from birthing Quentyn.

What worried Doran the most was indeed his own brother; he had not had news for him since he had been brought senseless at the Water Gardens – no words, no outcry, no notice. Then a note 'I need to talk you. '.

“You didn't resent about your quarantine.” Doran asked warily. At first, he had thought Oberyn was still as weak as a duckling; too much so to confront with him; but now he looked somehow stronger than he had been in his wildest days.

“I suppose it couldn't be helped.”

Oberyn headed to the orange groves.

“Why do you need to talk me?”

Doran needed to trust someone; but a Dorne Prince can trust no one. His brother, always lacking firmness of resolution; he trusted him less than before.

“The Water gardens are driving me mad. I can't stay any more.”

Oberyn snatched a fruit, and bounced it pointlessly from hand to hand. After a while he raked his nails on the orange, and began peeling carefully it.

“I have never dwelt here since I was a child.”

He had carved the peel in two neat half; and poked his forefinger trough it, to mark the eyes with two holes. _As children, they would dent the rim into fangs, soak the pith stem left inside with oil, light it, and imagine it was a fire-spitting dragon._

“I remember when I was here. Our sister couldn't play much at the pools, only watched us; but every night I told her about my mischiefs, and she would never tell mother.”

_Princes-and-dragons was one of the few play Elia was allowed, but they never agreed on the rules. He insisted on the Prince defending the Princess from dragons, while she held that dragons were purported to defend the Princess. Then Princess Elia married one, and all rules proved wrong. No Prince, no dragon protected her and her children._

“Now your Arianne is doing the same with me – telling her little mischiefs to her sickly uncle.”

He picked a segment and slowly sucked it, then tossed away the rest angrily.

“I have just listened to Mellario's complaints. I doubt our sister encouraged your misbehaviour. Who suggested Arianne to pour in a pool all the die bottles of the Archon's daughter?”

“I was just teaching her some basic chemistry.”

“Arianne experimented, and now there are a dozen children dappled in green.”

“What's the problem?” Oberyn huffed “ The children were thrilled; they have always been so jealous of Spotted Sylva's freckles.”

His brother had the lack of common sense of a five-years-old.

“Seriously, you should decide what to do with your life.”

The pools were shimmering at distance; when they reached a bench, Oberyn sat down.

“Did you have any say in it, Doran? In your own life?”

“I did. Mellario and I.” Doran stifled a sigh.

“You took a real decision, once in your life. Was it wise?”

Doran looked him square in the eyes. _He_ was the one supposed to question his brother. His marriage being or not being wise was none of his concern.

“And what of it?” He asked defensively.

“Never followed your advises. Too wise to my liking.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have reconsidered. I could take the black. What do you think of it?”

“You... To the Wall? It's so... Cold?” Oberyn had not lost his irksome talent to take him aback. “Why the Night's Watch?”

“I guessed a white cloak could be ruled out. You should be glad I keep out of troubles.”

“Robert Baratheon will rejoice.” Doran replied curtly.

“Your idea.” Oberyn gave a shrug. “Stay out of troubles. Doing something with my life.”

He rose up, and they turned towards the pools.

“Lord Tywin's. As you _don't_ know, Jon Arryn visited some time ago, and hinted at the _opportunity_ for you to join the Night's Watch.” Doran corrected him, and added in a non-committal tone. “By the way, guess who joined in as of late? Benjen Stark.”

“Sort of family tradition for the Starks.” Oberyn was unconcerned.

“A family tradition we gladly have not, and I'd be grateful if you did not start it. Nor did any further favour to the Lannisters. Robert Baratheon has already seen to that.”

Doran carried on.

“How merciful, how large in giving is he. Jaime Lannister, as reward for doing the opposite a Kingsguard should do, got a royal pardon and still dons his whites; Cersei Lannister is the Queen, and how quickly he forgot his beloved Lyanna, but who could outshine her golden beauty and the rich dowry Casterly Rock could offer: our sister and her children, cloaked in Lannister red? Jon Arryn is now Hand of the King for winning Robert the Tullys' support wedding Lysa.”

“Spoils of war bargaining churns me up.”

“Eddard Stark, Robert's best friend, who gained him Lord Holster's support as well, paying his brother's marriage debt, and slain half the Kinsguard alone, the one on the winning side who had lost more: a father, a brother, a sister, got nothing in exchange.”

“Pardon me, if I'm not to weep on his sad misfortunes.”

“Lord Stark demanded the Kingslayer to go to the Wall and had instead his own brother dispatched there. _A Lannister always pays his debt.”_ Doran uttered with a sour smile.

“I fear I turned down your _opportunity_ hinting at my surprise in Ser Jaime not being given the option to take the black, as many of those who so valiantly fought for Prince Rhaegar at the Trident.”

“Would you rather have me married? I'm poor marriage material.”

“I've changed my mind. You are _no_ marriage material. After your recent deeds and unexpected recovery, more than half the Dornish houses – the most hot-blooded ones, to be sure - are offering their heirs, daughters, sisters, grandmothers and not yet born babies, and since they are the rabid half, whichever we choose the others will take offence, and cry for revenge, so no eligible marriage in Dorne for you.”

“How flattering.” Oberyn replied drily, but Doran had to vent his discontent and decided to take his brother's answer as sign of his interest.

“Lord Uller sent letters _before_ his wife birthed a baby boy, of which I am thankful to the Seven, because the Ullers are half mad, and a son of you and his never born daughter would cast lots of being utterly mad. He threatens to plunder the Mother's statue from Lord Fowler's Sept, since it's unfair he has twins, and in the meantime burnt the Mother altar in his own Sept, because if the She doesn't heed his prayers, he has no use for Her. He burnt Hellholt Sept just in case, with his Septon inside: Lord Harmen is not a man of half measures. Lady Blackmont offers herself, quite older than you but she is sure you _fondly_ remember her. Lord Fowler on his side proposed _both_ his daughters, one as wife, one as paramour, you choose which; Franklyn is a tender father and the twins are so close he won't have them parted.”

“Aren't they Arianne's little friends?” Oberyn found the idea slightly unsettling.

“Just so: Jeyne is the green-legged one, and Jennelyn has a green back. Don't pull that face, the die will wash out by the time they come of age. A marriage in Dorne is out of question; I won't have the Ullers, the Fowlers and the Blackmonts reaching for each others' throat.”

Doran took a breath.

“As for a wedding out of Dorne, our Lord of the Twins dropped his offer: such a marriage would put him under scrutiny, he realizes the Freys are not the Lannisters, so he would rather not remind the Tullys how late he was in getting on the winners' train. If you are really looking for a wife, you'd have better luck in the Free Cities.”

They were by the pools now. A naked little girl, green from hair to toe, darted to greet them. Arianne tugged at Doran sleeves.

“Father! Garin says he is a Greenblood orphan – why is not he always green then?”

“Are you sure I'm your father? I'm a Prince and my daughter is a Princess, while you are a green froglet.” He closely examined her. “A frog strikingly resembling my Arianne, though. Did an evil wizard turn you into a frog?”

“No evil wizard. Green die magic.” Arianne tittered.

“Yet you look just like one. I'd rather have you looking like a Princess: Dorne can't be ruled by a froglet. Do you know what it's needed to turn back a frog into a Princess?” Doran hauled up Arianne, and kissed a wet, green, wriggling frog. “A Prince's kiss.”

The little Princess-frog jumped down and took her father hand, leading, or rather pulling him.

Oberyn watched them scurry away.

When Doran was back – an outstandingly smiling, sweaty and green-mottled Doran - he met Oberyn, waiting for him in the pillared archway.

“I made up my mind. I'm leaving for Oldtown.”

He saw an unusual determination in his brilliant, fickle, reckless brother.

Likely the best solution for every party involved. A career at the Citadel could suit Oberyn more than anything else; the many subjects of study available would keep his restlessness at bay, and him safely away from Dorne and its political plots, without appearing a diminishment or an exile, and would rather add to House Martell credit and renown.

Doran wrote a letter to his treasurer, to provide for Oberyn's travel and stay in Oldtown. He was still a Prince of Dorne; and he was not to live like a penniless novice. To provide _largely:_ to show the world he enjoyed his brother's friendship and full support, and that the Martells could still keep their chin up.

Mother was right. Oberyn had found his answers at the Water Gardens, and had finally decided what to do with his life.

It was not the answer Doran expected, though.


	5. Oldtown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Fallen leaves can be picked up by the shovelful,_  
>  _So can memories and regrets._  
>  _And the north wind takes them_  
>  _Into the cold night of oblivion._  
>  Jacques Prevert

Oldtown streets were filthier, the Citadel sphinxes smaller. He was no longer thirteen, world had lost his golden glaze, and morning mists rising from the Honeywine their magic. Strong cider, though, was still the same; not even in his teens he could admit he liked it, but it had tasted _exotic_ enough to get him drunk for the first time. A ragged bunch of street urchins were squabbling over some worm-eaten apples, like dogs fighting over a meatless bone. At thirteen, had wet cobblestones really been shiny and rain a kiss on your skin, or was it just a trick of his own imagination?

He ordered another tankard. His first hangover. Oberyn was in for another.

“You never liked cider, Birdie.”

He raised his eyes to meet Fat Dunce's gaze – now _maester_ Duncan, he would need to remember that; the inn was crawling with novices and acolytes, as always in the previous six centuries, the Quill and Tankard dating back to the age of Queen Nymeria and never being closed since, as a brass plate in the inner room proudly stated. Gods be good, he still called him 'Birdie'. There had been a time he was not yet the Red Viper. He had hated his novice's nickname, almost as Duncan his own. In his gaudy Dornish garb, with garish coloured scarves, and sashes, and flowing robes, he looked like a bird from the Summer Islands, he was told; and he was doomed 'Birdie' forever.

“You'd better enjoy some palatable Dornish red at the White Raven. Money has never been a problem to you.”

He smirked. “I don't feel like enjoying, maester Dunce.” I feel like getting drunk without enjoying myself.

He could not bring himself to call him Duncan. Fat Dunce was a quiet, scrawny, short boy, with jutting ears oft times a bright red, a few years older than Oberyn, and his best Citadel mate. Now he was taller tha him, scrawnier than ever, and wore a heavy maester chain.

“Sorry, Birdie.” Maester Duncan blushed like Fat Dunce would have. “About your loss, I mean. I wish I could... ”

Oberyn shook his head. Of them, Birdie had always been the talkative one, and Fat Dunce the quiet. Some would call him shy; instead, he mastered the art of friendly silence. His silences had kept Birdie's recklessness in check – and Birdie himself from getting kicked off many times. _Apart from the last one._ The Citadel would not kick off a brilliant though misbehaving Prince of Dorne. A scandal could taint the Citadel itself; so it was quenched, and he was softly suggested to leave.

Dunce left him be, and Oberyn busied himself with his tankard. Eventually, he tried to lift his mood.

“You might be interested: tomorrow Maester Marwyn -”

“I'm leaving early in the morning.”

“I thought you would stay for a few days.”

“So did I.”

Oberyn drew another draught.

“You should at least buy her some clothes first.”

“We'll make do with my squire's ones. She is tall for her age.” He forced some cider down. “I want her away from here. The sooner, the better.”

“You can't even be sure she is yours.”

“She called her Obara.”

Oberyn went on drinking, as if that settled the matter as far as he was concerned. Maester Duncan gave him a sideways glance, then get lost in the sight of the shimmering river.

“You were the only one of our lot who could pay for the child, Birdie.”

As well as the foolishest one, who would pay for her. I was foolish enough to believe the tale. He could still read Fat Dunce's silence. _Birdie, are you still foolish enough?_

Oberyn grinned. “A Prince must be open-handed.”

Before leaving for Oldtown, he had asked the treasurer Obara's remittance last address. She drew forth her account books, and answered that, after a couple of years, Prince Oberyn not mentioning it any more, she had thought it no longer 'required the Prince's consideration' and altogether stopped sending. Lady Alyse actually meant she hoped he had grown wiser, and realized how not 'financially sound' was remitting money to a whore for a child who could be anyone's child. For a child who was no one's child. Oberyn had simply forgotten about it. _So, is it what they call getting wiser: forgetting?_

He had given the last seven years sums to Obara's mother, who would have had more than enough money to drink herself senseless for the next seven months.

Just before he met her, he realized he couldn't remember Obara's mother at all; and as soon as he saw her, he knew her; somehow she was strikingly the same, yet he was shocked at the difference from the girl who had so suddenly come to his mind. _Your first one is always the most beautiful._ Plain at best, bordering on ugly, he would say now, and could not even figure himself gracing her with a second glance. Nonetheless, he was disappointed at her not recognizing him, more at her feigning recognition, and mostly at his own disappointment.

What did you expect? You were no more than a boy then; and how many men she has had since, and forgotten? How many boys? How many _Princes_? There are not that many left in Westeros, now, that she could not remember him; and Rhaegar Targaryen had a sorry taste for women of different sorts: the kind who destroys realms, and fells cities.

“Besides, the girl needs me.”

 _Liar_. I need her, much more than she does. Not to feel so utterly useless, lifeless, hopeless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [les feuilles mortes](http:%20/www.%20youtube.%20com/watch?%20v=Xo1C6E7jbPw)


	6. Obara

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sweet present of the present._
> 
> Jacques Prevert

 

His head was pounding so fiercely he almost couldn't think. He fluttered his lids close to shut out the harsh blaze. His tongue was thick. Sunstroke... All his bones were aching, but he did not recall falling from his horse. He wheezed and warily peeked about.

Only then he realized he was lying on a feathered bed, in a still dark room; through badly latched shutters a blade of cold light had waken him up, be it Hightower beacon or suddenly unclouded moonlit- and the muddle-headed sickness in the aftermath of his purposeful overdrinking.

He tilted his head and looked at Obara.

'Lucky child... Her mother a whore, her father a sot. '

Out of his foolish mistakes – and there was no lack of them – this one was the maddest. He had claimed her back; Obara came with him, but she did not utter a word, and twitched away when he had tried to muss up her wiry hair, and now he didn't know what to do with her. Of course, he had _planned_ – the very word sounded now ludicrous – to raise her at the Water Gardens; but then she was nothing more than a half forgotten name recorded in a ledger.

Now in the sudden clarity following intoxication everything was so dreadfully, piercingly _real_ , and the matter was taking quite a different turn.

He smelt the lingering sweet tang of an orange on the table – the one Obara was given last night, the one she at first could not believe was really for her, and when he handed it to her she took the fruit tentatively, and careful as she was handling a frail, precious treasure – to her plainly it was, and despite her reaching for it a dozen time, she couldn't even dare peel it, and always tucked back her hands in her lap, till she decided to save it for the next day. She had peered drowsily at it till she fell asleep.

He rolled onto his side and clumsily sat up at the bed edge, kicking away the dress dropped on the rug – he had been too drunk to care, and too tired, the better part of night spent watching her sleeping in his bed. So present, so true, sweeter than any orange. More astonished than her at the unhoped-for, undeserved present; so frail and so precious. Oberyn had not felt for too long the warmth of life, and no longer believed present could bestow him any more gifts.

He tried to rise up, but he was still groggy and slumped back. At last he managed to climb from his bed and pushed the window panels open to let the cool of night in. Oberyn stood for a while leaning on the sill, deeply breathing to ease his headache. Stars were getting dimmer and the sky lightened ever so slightly. He felt a strange tension building inside him and fresh air made him even giddier.

Obara stirred and yawned; his bumbling had waken her up. He turned back to her.

Naked and hard as stone.

Obara was looking at him, half risen to an elbow.

“M'lord?” She slurred dozily.

He sat back on the bed and glanced at her over his shoulder.

“Just a nightmare.”

When he took her hand, she tried not to flinch, and somehow it was far worse than actually flinching.

Obara gingerly reached for _him_ ; she asked wavering “What would you have me do?” and his stomach gave a lurch.

_He had been just a boy a few years older than Obara when he fathered her._

Oberyn gave her chapped hand a gentle squeeze. “It's nothing, child. Close your eyes and try to get some more sleep.”

_Her mother had not been much older either._

He pulled back his hand. Obara tensed up breath didn't slacken.

“If you can't sleep, you have still time enough for breakfast, before we leave. You can have everything you like. Go ask my squire for his spare clothes and get ready.”

_The oldest children at the Water Gardens were about Obara's age._

Obara darted out of the room, was back within seconds, stole a look at him, snatched her orange and slammed the door.

He could feel the ghost of heath from the empty dent her body rumpled on the sheets, as she were still there.

He slouched against the door; the knob was bumping in his hip with a distracting dull pain. _Rough sex should leave marks._ His own hands felt awkward and clammy and Oberyn stroked himself to a grossly _unsatisfying_ release _._

_Back to life again. Fine timing, too._

He slid down along the hewn plank, its rough wood grain bruising his back, squatted, and crossed his arms above his head, tossed away his long hair that almost grazed the floor – he had not cut since, and kept them growing like Rhaegar once did. He picked up some rags aground, wiped his cum, tossed them away. Queasiness washed over him and he soon rose to slosh bitterness out of his mouth while the room spun around.

A spent tallow candle had wept its last drippings in a whitish jelly smear on the toilet table; the water he poured in the basin was no longer hot, nor refreshingly cool, but bland and stale, like lukewarm wine dregs staining cups after a too long, tiresome feast. He got a glimpse of himself at the looking mirror and, before leaving the room to get rid of suddenly irksome bristling stubbles – _Without a proper shave, you'll end up looking like an Ibbenese whaler –_ scribbled her a hurried note.

When he was back, Obara was not waiting for him at the inn stable gate, as he had wrote her. She had had time aplenty; why was she that late? He questioned his squire who informed him she had gone upstairs, and was still in their room. He strode up and kicked open the door.

“Aren't you ready yet? I left you a note.”

Obara fidgeted puzzled his scrap: only then he understood she couldn't even read.

“Gather your belongings. Our ships is sailing with the morning tide.”

She looked helplessly at him. She was dressed in his squire's sagging clothes, and her own had been thrown away. Not even what she was wearing was hers; her only property was an orange.

“I've got an idiot daughter.” He muttered under his voice and shoved her out of the room.

“Did I displease you, m'lord? “Obara was trying to steady her cracked voice.

 _It's not her fault._ His anger at the thought racked up even wildlier. For once, he clenched his fists and managed to resist the urge to hit her and caught his breath to quell his temper. She was better than him at self-control.

“Let's go now. It's going to be a long and trying journey.”

\--o--

Everything had gone wondrously awry.

“ _What would you have of me?”_

'I'm your father, come with me, trust me, you are to do what I demand of you. '

He had no right to claim her as his. Words he could never bring himself to speak, yet he had been sure they were the right thing to say. They had sounded so natural, easy, true; and now they rang hollow and wrong as false coin.

“ _What would you have of me?”_

He badly needed her to trust him, but how could he win her over? He could not believe in trust won by empty, meaningless word. Trust commanded truth.

'I knew your mother, long time ago. I would like to be your father. '

_Would you have me, as your father?_

Obara had rather notion of what a sugar daddy could be, but she did not know what a real father was; no more than he knew how it was like to be one, nor what father was to do with a girl. He should have asked Doran; but he was too different from his brother, and could not promise he would do what he did. He would lie, for a certainty; and if he could not trust himself, how could she?

“ _What would you have of me?”_

“I will teach you how to ride, how to read, how to write.” Not really much he could do for her, and that for sure would sooner have her regretting Oldtown backalleys; but what else could he grant, befitting a proper little lady?

_I would have you to trust me._

“At the Water Gardens, you will have more oranges than you could ever eat.” That was indeed shameless bribing.

“ _What would you have of me?”_

Every night he would skin an orange for her, and conjure with the peel a dragon lamp: his slender fingers still remembered childlike deftness and the smoke almost unpleasant waxy tart smell spoke him of childhood secret whispers, and he would tell her his favourite tales as a kid, of dragons and battles, or his own adventures in the Disputed Lands. Mellario would not deem them apt for a girl, but he felt the urge to share with Obara something they both could enjoy, and anything she would let him.

Never, never fancy tales about flowery romance, princesses or kittens, though – _the ones Elia liked best, and always have him tell her once more when they were children, for to her he could spin a tale better than any storyteller, and even on a retelling he would leave her hanging on his next breath, nor the ones he made up for Rhaenys_ \- never, never true stories about princesses – _they were Elia's and Rhaenys's own stories_.

Obara was what he had left, after losing them: and he could scarcely hope in her story ending; yet, he would have for her a life with no tears, and as much he should commit to give her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [une orange sur la table](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sb3CaGc788c)


	7. Mellario

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oberyn prevails upon Doran and Mellario to raise Obara at the Water Gardens.

Oberyn was back too soon, and not with a chain, but with a sullen lanky girl, just shy of ten.

“She will stay at the Water Gardens.” He stated under his brother inquisitive gaze.

“She is too old; within a year, she will have to leave. What about her afterwards? Has she anywhere to go?”

“Nowhere.”

Doran sighed. The war of the Usurper had left its sad trail of orphans, as there were not enough street urchins already in peace time.

“Who will take care of her then? Where will she end up? Scullion in some kitchen, or into a whorehouse.”

“She was born into one.” Oberyn gave a shrug. “I'll care for her.”

“You don't even know what it's like.”

“Of course you are a perfect father; but it's Mellario who takes care of yours, so please don't tell me what to do my own children, Doran.”

His brother had mentioned Mellario once too many for his comfort; and her dwelling at the Gardens, where Oberyn also lived, made him even less comfortable. He felt a subtle pang of envy at the thought of their pools, the children, and orange groves there; shamefully less about his wife. The Water Gardens … apparently, disgraced members of House Martell were exiled in their paradise: how would it be like, to live there as a a disgraced, _former_ Prince of Dorne? Doran shoved away the thought.

“Is she your daughter?” He asked, concealing his bewilderment.

The answer rang subdued and downhearted. “It makes no matter.”

Doran frowned, and cast him an assessing glance.

“Your idea. Raise some children.” Oberyn defensively replied.

“I didn't mean dredging dockside scum in Oldtown gutters.” He should have kept the thought to himself, yet he couldn't help and let it slip. His own unbridled fit of temper rankled him more than his poor reading of his brother, whose spiky reply countered soon.

“Watch your tongue. Could be my daughter.”

Be that as it may, he knew better than arguing with his brother over an alley cat he brought home, and breaking with more words than needed the seeming truce between them. If he had grown a tender spot for stray children, so be it. It was a relief Oberyn busied himself with something so harmless as adding a waif to the Water Gardens; they were traditionally the Dorne consort's lot, but Mellario should leave him be.

\--o--

Mellario of Norvos stood on tiptoe and kissed him on both cheeks. “Glad you are back, princeling.”

“I missed you, my lady.” Prince Oberyn leaned to kiss her palms, and she ruffled the hair at his nape.

“Liar. It took you a sweet long time, after your arrival, to pay a call on me.”

Mellario was a piquant, curvy, petite brunette, all fake innocence, with the voice of a cooing dove. She prettily pursed her lips, and invited him to take seat by her side on a carved stone bench, beneath a bower shaded by heady scented orange trees.

“Some urgent affairs to settle. Am I forgiven?” He sat askew close by, braced rakishly an elbow on the bench low back, rested his cheekbone on his fist, and gifted her with an impudent smile.

“May I ask who is she to you?”

Oberyn dodged her question with a sneer. “You'd better not know.”

“How intriguing.” She needled him, with a wicked flicker in her eyes. “Isn't she too young, even for you, Oberyn?”

“You're speaking like a jealous old harridan, Mel, which you're not.”

“Might I add your urgent affair looks a bit too plain, even for the undiscriminating rogue of you?”

“No need to fuss, good-sister: you'll always be the favourite of mine.”

The Lady Mellario uttered a throaty laugh.

“I would appreciate it, though, if you did not tamper with _my_ Water Gardens.”

“Doran allowed it, if you would raise no objection.”

“I ought to be jealous. He can't deny you anything.”

“Should I consider being exiled in dull wastes in the middle of nowhere a token of my brother's affection?”

“You wound me; I hoped you would better appreciate my company.”

“Of which, I'm deeply grateful and utterly charmed. The most barren desert would flourish at your feet; without you, the Water Gardens would equate to the Red Sands.”

“Nice flourish of apologies, princeling. I wonder if I should have a fling with you.” She squinted at him and tossed back her black hair tumble. “Just to rile him, you know.”

“Please don't, and behave like the prim and proper little lady you are. I already had a taste of his brotherly love.”

“Don't worry. He doesn't care about me that much.”

“He worships you.”

“Does he?” She boldly tinkled a sad giggle. “Sometimes I wish I had fair hair, green eyes, and Lord Tywin's whiskers...”

Oberyn wound his arm around her waist, and pulled her to him. “Pray tell, how did my oafish brother manage to get hold of you?”

He mocked a kiss, she twisted away, and both attempted a half-hearted laughter. Oberyn tried again and when he stopped a breath from her mouth, she took him by his ears a pressed a peck on his forehead.

“Had I fallen for a man like you... How many women had their hearts broken by Oberyn Martell? I'd wager you never bothered counting. Viper's venom is such a quick, pitiful death.” Mellario sighed, and flicked a hand as to swat him aside. “I could have forgotten you in a fortnight or at worst filed for further reference. There are subtler poisons; a spider entraps you in webs, wraps you in silk, and eats you alive.”

He knotted his fingers and raised a brow. “Sucking the very pith of life... You know much about poison.”

“You know nothing of love.”

The Lady Mellario paused and dropped her playful façade. “What are you going to do with her? She is almost too old for the Gardens, and you can’t take care of her alone. You already have the worst influence on Arianne.”

“Would you object, were she my daughter?”

“Am I supposed to take care of my husband's brother's misbegotten children?”

“Are you asking me to ask you?”

“Anyway, is she?”

“Am I a father?”

His question lingered unanswered in the dappled light, below glistening dark orange leaves.

“Who is her mother?”

Oberyn tightened his jaw, looking away from her.

“Who is she to you? The girl looks quite fond of you; always dogging at your heels.”

Too often he forgot to slow down his pace, he forgot she was just a little girl, he forgot she was with him, and Obara silently hurried to keep up with his long easy loose strides, without ever asking him to wait for her, or even reminding him she was there.

_I keep forgetting about her._

Oberyn shrugged. “A battered dog would lick any hand – any hand not hitting too hard.”

He held off giving an answer, till he finally muttered. “Someone for which I thought I could make a difference.”

_Someone who wouldn't forget me in a fortnight._

“Mayhap I could have really made a difference.”

_Someone I forgot._

“Didn't you succeed?”

“Did I?” Mellario close questioning made him lash out. “The difference I made was seasickness, a broken arm, and some blood oranges. Can you call that succeeding? Wait, I forgot yesterday she almost got drowned at the pools. She can't swim, she can't ride, she can't read...”

“What a disappointment! Did you expect to win her unending love just with a bow and couple of tilts? You entered too many lists, princeling.”

“She should be disappointed.”

“But you are the disappointed one.”

“Quite selfish of me, don't you agree?”

“You are very disappointed with yourself as well.”

“I was not cut out for this.” His bitter words were edged with self-loathing. “I only managed to spend most of journey by our ship rail, holding her head, while she was retching over the side.”

Obara was too sick and too weary to climb up to her bunk again, and she fell asleep in his own. When she woke she cast him a half smile – Obara did not cry, scarcely smiled, almost didn't talk – only to hop over him, reaching for the pail, and threw up.

Though it felt like holding retching Obara's head was his life best part, and that spoke volumes against him.

Mellario's teasing scoffs had somehow softened him, and Oberyn let go what he had left of his pride.

“I thought voyages could be so long and boring for a child, and I tried to teach her how to read. I hoped we could spend some time together.”

_Someone I forgot. Someone who wouldn't forget me in a fortnight._

“I brought back from the Citadel some manuscripts; she got seasick and puked. On the most precious one, illuminated by the very hand of maester -”

Mellario had the grace not to jeer at him, though he totally deserved it, but she just cut him tapping his hand.

_Crinkled parchments costing you ten times what you ever gave her mother for Obara._

“You don't want to teach a child how to read on a rare volume.”

“She is not that child, and I had nothing close at hand with bigger letters. You wouldn't fuss about giving an illuminated book to Arianne.”

“Arianne is a princess, and she is getting the education befitting to one.”

_A far cry from a princess, to be sure. Why shouldn't she be one, really? Why shouldn't she get everything a princess is granted? Everything a prince could give her?_

“I'll give you that. Had I only realized... Living by the Citadel and not being able to sign your own name. The busiest port in the Seven Kingdoms, and she can't swim and was never before on a boat. I played at the Water Gardens: I just couldn't figure what is childhood without pools and oranges.”

_And regard, love, protection. A childhood lacking everything I ever took for granted. And a mother who could grant me all that. And a sister. What you have always taken for granted is not granted at all._

“You didn't tell me about her broken arm. Were you teaching her how to ride?”

“I thought she had already learnt enough.”

“You should have used a pony!”

“I was not teaching her; and girls her age can ride steeds. She is almost as tall as my squire; they would have laughed at us on the road, had she been on a pony.” He replied heatedly, and added in a lower tone. “She and Red Sand seemed to get along.”

“Do you mean _that_ Red Sand? Without even a proper training, and reining Sand on her own?” Mellario was shocked.

“Never liked boorish horses. You always said he has more common sense than me.”

“You have no sense at all.” She shook her head.

“You may have the right of it. I'm practising to get some, but I'm aware I have a long way to go. ”

Oberyn kept silent, till Mellario laid a hand on his shoulder, and dismissed him with her usual farewell. “Thank you for playing the fool, good-brother. ”

He threaded his fingers with hers and went to one knee. “But I am a fool. The girl may stay?”


	8. Arianne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obara trying to fit in at the Gardens

“Mellario, I need your help.”

“Obara.” He added after an awkward while.

Despite everyone at the Water Gardens acknowledging her as his daughter, and openly referring to her as such, Oberyn had still to overcome an odd protective shyness which he had wrapped her into, even to call her by her name.

\--o--

Arianne had been the first one to declare her as his daughter, or rather to claim Obara officially as her cousin.

At the beginning, she took it ill at an interloper divesting her of the unchallenged first rank within Prince Oberyn's affections lists, and of her uncle's undivided attention she had enjoyed before Obara's arrival. Arianne had latched onto him, since her mother had to care for a newborn baby, and he was dwelling at the Water Gardens. He had warned her she should not be jealous of her little brother, for she was to be Dorne Princess, and Quentyn would have to obey her, as he himself, and everyone else, had to Doran; for the nonce she could benefit from her uncle's company, and was granted free access to his lap.

Arianne was again admonished jealousy was too far below her, and she eventually came to the conclusion that a grown cousin was in many way more interesting than a toddler brother, too little to be much fun, and took firmly possession of Obara.

Before a faintly amused Jon Arryn, and a stunned Obara, the Princess stated “Lord Arryn, allow me to introduce my cousin, lady Obara Sand.”

Then she grabbed Obara's soiled jerkin hem – she was still wearing her riding clothes, and unaccustomed to courtly manners – and whispered in the sudden hush “Curtsey, Obara, he is the Lord of the Vale, and Hand of the King!”

Since her arrival in Sunspear Obara had been so painfully aware she belonged to the lowest rung, she was 'm'lording' pretty much everyone, which rankled Prince Oberyn to no end; actually everything wearing a livery, including barded horses, just to be on the safest side. She was dumbstruck at being called a lady herself, so astounded she almost tumbled into an ungainly curtsy, and blurted in her worst Oldtown dockside accent a “M'lord” shamefully highlighting her base-born roots.

The Hand instead smiled wanly at her, and caressed her cheek. “Forgive my surprise, my lady: I thought you were boy.”

\--o--

“She is getting better, lately.” Mellario encouraged him.

“Still, she doesn't belong with other children, apart from Arianne.”

“I told you she was too old to settle in; children her age have already their cohorts, and the newcomers are too young for her. Her not attending lessons with others doesn't help either.”

_Too late._

Oberyn had thought too mortifying for Obara to study with the youngest ones, and deep down too wounding to his own pride; as for joining the eldest, she was walking too behind them on the path of knowledge, as maesters would put it, or rather she had actually never trod a step on it, so he had resolved to teach her himself. Not even that had proven a good idea.

“I wonder if I would better not have taken her from her mother.” He considered grimly.

“You can't mean it. Which _opportunities_ for Obara's future could she ever give -”

“Children care little and less for opportunities. A child wants sound ground to thrive upon; but I couldn't give her as much.”

Now Obara was treated as such, had everything a princess could fancy, and a fresh tangy blood orange always at her bedside. Still, she was afraid all that could be wrested from her again, as she had been wrested from her mother, and from her previous life, and Obara had no trust in future, in people, in anything really.

“You should get yourself a family, and let Obara -”

“Do you think any noble lady could consent raising a whore's child, and love her as her own?” He sneered bitterly, and squared her in the eyes.

“You'd better give her over to the Faith, as any responsible, considered father would do with a natural daughter.” Mellario being the noble lady raising her, her composed reply had some edge to it.

Oberyn didn't quite miss her point.

_And get rid of her along with the responsibility, once and for all. Even you have been considerate, once. And that could as well make me reconsider the whole thing about... Tyene, was she?_

“To the Faith? Spare me such platitudes.” He flared up. “Turn her over, and turn to other playthings, for admittedly, I'm not that good at playing the father, and in the long run this play turns wearisome? Just to weigh her down with my whims, and gift her with some more unsteadiness, as she were not floundering enough. No. I'd sooner turn to the Faith myself and become a Septon.”

“Seven save us! You have been quite good at turning to other playthings up to now, and at dodging failure when you couldn't succeed.”

“Don't preach me. Now I've become accustomed to fighting lost battles, and I'm learning to welcome failure.”

Oberyn kept silent for a short while, to regain a semblance of self-control; he knew he needed Mellario's support, and he might even need to entreat her.

“Obara needs some company; she is more at ease with horses than with other children, and Arianne is the only one she relates to. A sister, _natural_ like her, even newer to the Gardens, and closer to her in age, someone else she could feel close to.”

_Someone she could not feel so dreadfully below._

Arianne was a sweet child, but the Princess every twinkling of her few years and every inch of her shorter height. Their gap was more of an abyss, and his daughter could never hope to compare to her.

Oberyn pleaded again. “I'm willing to undertake risks for her, and even Doran will agree there are no more hazards of waking the dragons, taking Nymeria here; will you help me?”

“Your Volantene child is perfectly cared for, and she is raised in a prominent family as befitting to her rank.”

“She will be not less cared for here.”

“In Volantis, she will _always_ be an old blood lady.”

“While here she will be _only_ a bastard. As much are you hinting at, Mel?”

“You should think about her future, and leave her be.”

“To be sure, Nymeria could live quite happily without ever knowing she had a father.” He sneered. “Just what my wise brother would do.”

“Did Doran ever spawned bastards at the world four corners?” Mellario retorted bluntly; Oberyn had been asking for it.

“Since I did, I'm not wise, and I'm not him, I'm going to fetch her no matter what. Not even at the Citadel they have books on how to deal best with such instances, and even if who reads lives many lives, you can't let others write the book of your own life, so I guess I'll have to write it myself. Doran has no reason to object me leaving for the Free Cities; as long as I stay away from Sunspear, he is happy.”

“If you insist, I will write some letters. Have you told Obara yet?”

“I will.”


	9. Oranges and Wintercakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obara's lessons
> 
> _For all things are swift to fade and become matters for tales, and swiftly too complete oblivion covers their every trace._
> 
> Marcus Aurelius

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title changed, because more seasonally appropriate!

He had taken upon him to teach Obara, not only because she was too old for the youngest children and too unschooled to attend the oldest one's lessons, but out of his own _childish_ pride. Oberyn realized the over-achieving though fickle boy he had been was now grown into an overly demanding father, and she would never be brilliant, she would never be charming, she would never be beautiful, she would never be an accomplished lady, and he would never be proud of her. He couldn't help pushing her, and his pressure clogged her mind all the more.

_Too late._

He feared his daughter was a slow child. Obara had little love for books and learning, and less patience; Oberyn had no patience at all, yet had to find some to help in her exacting writing efforts.

He took her hand, to better drive her quill, and she twisted her mouth.

“Does it hurt?”

She nodded, and bit her lips. Too frightened to answer, too frightened to even cry. At the Citadel he had knew the sharp pang of cramped fingers after a day of painstaking copying, and doubted Obara could not endure a single page. Still, he sensed her fingers: too stiff.

“You're holding it too tight again, Obara. It's a feather, not Hotah's axe; just drive it lightly, like you would a horse.” He showed her again the right way to do it and get her to scrawl some more clumsy letters.

Oberyn allowed he should feel well-pleased of her nonetheless, at least for her stubborn tries, but sheer determination was to him too dull to prize and he wasn't, and as always his disappointment seeped to her: Obara was flustered again. She was always so eager to please, and so afraid she couldn't, and she would be cast aside once more. Oberyn gritted his teeth stifling a sight, dug out a small salve jar, and kneaded her tense knuckles.

He'd better put an end to her lesson; letters could wait. He let her pack away her writing set, and broached the matter with her.

“You have a sister in the Free Cities; her name is Nymeria.”

“Was she born in a Lyseni pillow house?” Obara asked with some expectancy. “There was a girl from Lys in the house: always nice to me, and she promised she would teach me when I grew older, and she even began-” Obara trailed off, wary of saying something wrong. Most of what she did or said was.

 _That sums up all her knowledge about the Free Cities._ Hersister's mother was high born enough for the Iron Throne, and could have been Queen of Westeros, had he not bedded her. _Better not to curb Obara's enthusiasm about her sister, though._

“Not Lys, she is from Volantis. Do you know where Volantis is?”

Obara shook abashed her head.

“Bring me the map over there, if you'd be so good, and I'll show you.”

Oberyn unrolled it, laid it flat on the desk, and asked Obara to trace their journey from Oldtown to Dorne, then he pointed at the chart.

"Tyrosh, the first port of call from Dorne to Volantis.”

“Is it where Arianne's green haired friend is from?”

“Yes, that's it. She is the Archon's daughter.” Oberyn ruffled her hair. “Do you know what an Archon is, Obara? It's almost like a prince, but in the Free Cities things works differently; they do not keep to birthright, and instead choose their own rulers out of top families. Elections, it's called.”

“And here is Lys, where your friend came from,” A fugitive bed slave from any of the Free Cities at best, Oberyn thougth. _Unlikely a Lyseni skilled professional could turn up at the infamous Docks; and_ _I should have noticed her silver hair, the Targaryens had the same colouring._ “And this one is Old Volantis, firstborn daughter of Valyria, at the Rhoyne mouth.”

“Is Old Valyria, the land of dragons and dragonlords, real? I thought all the stuff no more than children's tales.”

Robert the Usurper had ridden himself of the dragons skulls once bedecking the throne room, and Oberyn scorned it as a peevish denial of Targaryens' existence; but among the smallfolk, they were almost already forgotten, and would quickly turn into legend and bedtime stories, as they never were.

“Real enough. I have seen dragons skulls in King's Landing; likely as not, you have a dribble of dragonblood running through your veins. ”

_And your cousins – cousins you never knew you had, cousins like Arianne – way more. They princes in King's Landing, you on Oldtown cobbled streets._

Obara stared at him, unbelieving, and he put forth “A Martell Prince of old took a dragonlady as wife, and built the Gardens for their children.” He smiled at her. “Now that you make me think of it, it sounds just like a tale.”

“How do you like wintercakes, Obara?” Oberyn went back to the map. “They are made in Norvos, the city up here.”

“Once Arianne gave me one.” She answered in amazement. “Do they really come from that far?”

On Arianne's name day, all the children were given Norvoshi wintercakes, and she had a personal provision too, from which from time to time she would offer her best friends. A Princess could have her favourite cakes shipped from half a world away.

“You can have them as well, if you wish.”

“No more oranges?”

Obara stole a fretful glimpse at him, again worried. Oberyn tried to conceal his frustration.

“You can have both, Obara. Just ask.”

She looked downwards, and uttered in a thin voice. “I think I'd rather have blood oranges.”

“Oranges. So be it.”

Bashful, sullen, stubborn, proud Obara: his daughter still couldn't fully trust him; trust him enough to ask for cakes. It was small solace to know she likely didn't trust anyone.

He made himself say. “The Lady Mellario; and Aero Hotah, with his big axe, hail from Norvos.”

“Once Arianne tried to reach its top, riding my shoulders, but it was taller than us both.”

“Norvos as well sits on the Rhoyne.” His fingers hovered on the map, following the river downstream. “It's Mother Rhoyne Garin speaks of.”

“He says it's where the Greenblood orphans came from.”

“We Dornish are all Rhoynar, to some extent. When the warrior queen Nymeria, with her ships-” he supplied.

“Why is my sister named after a queen?” asked Obara puzzled. “How is she like?”

“Ever wondered why the Martells are called _Nymeros_ Martells? For queen Nymeria conquered Dorne, and she is our foremother; as for your sister, I have never met her. She is older than Arianne, and from one of the highest ranking families in Old Volantis. Would you like to know her as I would? I'm going to fetch her, and bring her home.”

Obara made no objection, likely nonplussed at the notion that dragons, warrior queens, and people from far away lands she had never heard of were not at all matter for tales, and not only real, but quite literally members of her own family.

“I'm afraid the journey is all by sea, and I doubt you'll like it: I won't have you greensick; but you love horses, don't you, Obara? There must be a Dothraki strain in you. You can ride Red Sand whenever you like while I'm away: he's yours. Just don't go alone with him. When I'm back, you will show me how good you have become.”

This was indeed a princely gift. The master of horses balked, Red Sand was the finest steed and a little girl would spoil him, but Oberyn had none of it. Riding was the one thing his daughter had quickly mastered, despite her dismal first attempts: and she would ride Red Sand _only_ , who had unexpectedly accepted to partner her in her training.

Once Obara had somehow managed to saddle up and bridle him by herself unnoticed before dawn, something unheard of, Red Sand undergoing such treatments usually with a large, if only perfunctory, amount of whining and kicking, and rode him in a hellbent race on the sandy shore, his hooves lashing the sea foam. Oberyn's chiding had been far milder than he had meant, and utterly ineffective, partly because he remembered doing just the same, maybe even younger, but he had been riding since he could remember, not just for a few months, and mostly because he realized he had never seen his daughter so truly, unabashedly happy. At first she had not even noticed him approaching, but as soon she did, she suddenly stopped, and her face crumpled while Oberyn's heart sank too. When she confessed her deed had been planned for days, and she had given Red Sand apples and carrots thrice every day, he just joined her wild ride, splashing the shallow water with her same commitment, and he utterly forgot about the intended reproach. When they were back at the Gardens, both soaked and laughing, he got the whole of Mellario's scolding.

“This way, you will never make a lady of her.” was her lecture close.

Oberyn doubted Obara would ever make a lady, that he could make her into one, that it was what he really would have for her, and what she really wished for. Her clumsy efforts were not making her any happier, and were rather due to her desperate urge to meet with what he expected of her. She was trying to fit in someone else's sagging clothes, since she borrowed his squire's ones, and would never look good in them.

What he now feared most, she would never be accustomed to happiness. Obara badly needed self-confidence and appreciation, and not to learn how to dip into a faultless curtsy; yet how could she get some, when she was so far below his own self-serving hopes, behind every other child in everything, at the Gardens? That's why she mostly kept to herself. Everything she had known, she had learnt, she had been at the Docks wouldn't do at the Gardens nor in Sunspear, and Obara herself felt wrong, for if all her previous life was to be forfeited, what was left of her?

Who should Obara be? Ill-posed problems never worked out solutions. Who was she – already - instead? Obara at her best was a street urchin, and not a princess, and felt more at home in the mews than everywhere else. He had already stifled a chuckle at her joining much older stable boys in their rough sports: some of them would have made a passable esquire, if need be. Obara could run and kick as as stubbornly as any, and shouted more foul-mouthed than most: as to that, being from Oldtown dockside for once was a bonus. Obara had been roughly shoved in the dirt, but she was already laughing on her feet. Her uncommon laughters were precious to him, for he would usually cringe when thinking of her. She was not that bad, really, for a shy little girl. His idea was preposterous, but ladylike pursuits ill-suited her; he should have a word with the master of arms.


	10. Old Volantis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oberyn goes to Volantis, meets Nymeria for the firs time, and is reminded of Elia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my headcanon, Nymeria is born from Oberyn and the _unsuitable_ Volantene intended bride to Rhaegar.  
>  If you are interested in more details see "The Loves of Queen Nymeria."

Oberyn had never seen his daughter before, only knew her name, and he did not expect he could recognize her. While he was restlessly pacing on an archway overlooking a walled courtyard, waiting for Nymeria's uncle, he absently looked at the children playing below, not so different from the ones at the Water Gardens. One of them, he thought, could be _her._ Perfumed shadows of lush rambling vines and quietly tinkling waters conveyed a queer similarity to the Gardens. He studied for a while their green shades rippling patterns on the flagstones. On a corner, a squatting slave was thudding a drum; a grey haired elegant woman, a slave as well, judging by the ruby tears tattooed on her cheeks, with an ivory stick tapped the rhythm on her bejewelled fingers and corrected the stances of a chain of barefooted girls, swirling on the smooth slabs like a rainbow-coloured ribbon swaying with a breeze. His wandering gaze was caught by one of them, dancing by the splashing fountain at the yard centre, not for a faint Martell feel to her, nor because she reminded him of her mother, but for her commanding grace.

“Could be Elia at her age.” He felt a sudden pang at the unbidden thought. Could have been Rhaenys, had she outlived her third name-day. Could have been Rhaegar's daughter, if not for his filthy, petty political trick. Could have died, if she had been. Soon he felt dizzy. Thanks to his daughter, her mother had never married Prince Rhaegar and was living. Had not been for his daughter, his sister would have been still alive, and mayhap wedded to one of her suitors of old.

To name one, a Hightower would have made a fine match; as Protectors of the Citadel, they were not stranger to learning as most other houses, and some of them even Citadel-educated. Elia would have loved it; she was far cry from demure high breed maidens who were familiar with their prayer book pages only and would mistrust as unseemly or freakish any further scholarly pursuit.

He owed her his early interest in books: when they were children, there was too little he could share with his sickly sister nor much else she could do; sometimes she was too ill even for that, and he would read her. More than that, from her stemmed his own wild eagerness for life; since she couldn't, he had always felt the urge to live twice for her; and telling her thereafter bestowed his own life meaning. Now he felt like a shattered book with no more binding, whose scattered pages he could no longer sort into sense.

Maybe he could have visited her in Oldtown from time to time, and even spent some time with his fellow acolytes, now maesters, discussing with them and recollecting their novice years at the Citadel; and maybe one of her children fostered at the Water Gardens, another companion to Arianne.

He cast spitefully aside the thought of her wedded to Lannister, Ser Oathbreaker, the Kingslayer. For all he cared, Aerys Targaryen could as well enjoy his whole life dream of burning and flaring in the most scalding of the Seven Hells till the Wall thawed; but in his last letter from to the Trident Prince Lewyn had written Elia and Rhaenys were safe, since brave Ser Jaime was to protect them, and his sworn brother had promised again he would, even more heatedly than his vows required. Elia and Jaime knew they both were more hostages than Princess or Kingsguard Knight; after her father fled, Rhaenys had grown fond of him, since he was the youngest White Sword, had a knack for children, and played with her and her kittens; he often kept her and Elia company, and the Princess and him had grown closer. At this words from his uncle, Oberyn had snorted it was only _fitting_ for his sister to find in a Lion cub what Rhaegar had in a Wolf girl.

“Are you all right, my friend?” Nymeria's uncle asked him. He was a young aspiring politician, paving his way for triarchy; to him, she was becoming an embarrassing and living reminder of his family unsuccessful attempt to attach to the Targaryens and foster relations with the Sunset Kingdoms. Old Volantis had no more inclination to the now ruling Baratheons than to the former dynasty, but the Volantenes were even less inclined to hold picking the wrong side and failure as true marks of political canniness. Now his interests were gearing toward Pentos, where Nymeria's mother – always an useful pawn - had quite brilliantly wedded.

Oberyn for a fleeting moment hoped the willowy raven haired child were not his, as it could have made any difference. She was; a self-contained Nymeria deeply curtsied and greeted him in the Common Tongue with a “My lord father” whose accent would have been considered flawless in Westeros, and too much so in Dorne. He almost hated her, and stiffly beckoned her to rise. Every breath of her felt painfully like she had ripped it from Rhaenys and Elia, because his daughter was a stranger to him, and he had never hold Nymeria, nor told her tales, as he had Rhaenys. He was the robber instead, and envying his own daughter's breaths was stripping her too, of her right to be, and more of the right to be herself, for whenever he looked at her he couldn't see Nymeria only, but Elia and Rhaenys as well, and every time his urge to revenge grew deeper and bitterer.

Nymeria, from Volantis old blood, as pure as it could go; Nymeria, who should have been a Princess; Nymeria, fit for a throne. He wondered if he could ever feel for her, so cruelly, mockingly perfect, so everything a prince could demand of his daughter, so everything he realized had come to dread, the same, unprecedented kind of overprotective love and odd possessiveness he felt for Obara, - for Obara had no one else, no one who could claim her; she had no haunting past behind, and no future apart from him, and was so fiercely _his_. Nymeria was at once too alien from what he was now and too close to what he had been.

Nymeria was veiled by too many ghosts, and try as he might, he could not hope to see her true face, nor really understand her, know what would be better for her, choose for her at best. He simply couldn't, and felt helpless before her; so she ought to learn how to think by herself, choose by herself, and be herself.


	11. Nymeria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And how could we sing  
>  ...  
>  On the the willow branches, by our vow,  
>  Our lyres, too, were hung,  
>  Lightly they swayed in the sad wind.

Oberyn led Nymeria through his library, looking for something she could read in the Valyrian section, where in a cubbyhole he had gathered Rhaegar’s music scrolls, likely mislaid and forgotten when they, from time to time, would write songs together, even if he was no match for the Silver Harp. He had meant to give them back at the nearer time, but such time never occurred, and he had not laid down a score nor a verse ever since; and seldom heard any music or song, less so in Valyrian: Mellario could play a passable high harp, but had no great gift for singing, nor he had danced any more.

_At Harrenhal, the last time he had – with his sister, and Ashara Dayne; his last banter with uncle Lewyn as well._

“You are suffering from quite a bad homesickness fit, nephew. How can you honour Dorne repute partnering, like a loser, with your own sibling and a cousin of sorts?” The Lady of Dorne had attended her naming ceremony, and bestowed upon her her own name, so Ashara Dayne was almost a relative.

“It's not my fault, ser, the Lady Ashara is so beautiful she would make any man forget himself; and you'd better mind the Kingsguard honour. Before me, she had a dance with one of your sworn brethren and to hear her tell it, he looked as though he was about to let go of his vows. Elia must have gone nuts to summon her at court as her lady companion: Ashara has even the Targaryen eyes, it's known the dragons are keen on their lookalike, and Rhaegar for a change could crown someone else Queen of Love and Beauty... ”

“Do take care of your health, princeling, when you go back to Dorne; you'll get a stiff neck, if you insist on dancing with close relatives _only_ : the Lady Mellario is a little bit of a woman.”

“You, dear uncle, should take care of your own neck, when you call on us in Sunspear; Arianne was elated with your last visit, and the Dorne princess is known to state she will dance with you _only_ on her nameday, once she gets some lessons.”

“I'm already planning revenge: as soon as Princess Rhaenys learns to dance, yours shall be the first princely feet she tramples on.”

_The last time he and Rhaegar... The last time of too many times._

Everyone of them, now dead. _Valar morghulis. All must die. We are all dead, in the long run, but we should live first, and Rhaenys never had as much as a dance lesson._ Oberyn himself felt more like a surviving ghost than a man really alive.

Nymeria drew out a scroll, blew out the dust, unfurled it on a desk, knelt on a chair, and began singing in Valyrian. Her intonation gave him shudders. Blood of old Valyria - her heritage. Rhaegar’s own.

She turned to him, in a swirl of amethyst and cream silks, threaded with pale gold, and broke his gloomy train of thoughts.

“My lord father -”

“There is no need to call me 'my lord', Nym; it's just father. Is that understood, once and for all?” He heard himself correcting her, harshlier than he intended.

There was really nothing wrong with it, and it was unlikely Nymeria had notion of Oldtown dockside accent. It did not bear thinking about, though, the horror his eldest could mess up with a 'm'lord father' or a 'm'lady sis', even if last time she had acquitted herself well and managed to utter a clear, not so stilted, and fairly average “By your leave, my lord uncle.” to the Prince of Dorne's slippers, before rushing away with Arianne. Oberyn had to try his best to conceal the sharp shards of pride he, to his own astonishment, was all at once feeling for her: he would not have his brother snorting “How can that sorry shy thing be your daughter?” Doran instead lightly tapped his shoulder, and chuckled “Cheer up, brother,” in a warm, heartening voice “It's just _fair_ such a bashful poor thing is yours.” Oberyn could see no more reason to hide his true feelings, and grinned like a fool.

“Father, are you a real Prince?” Nymeria asked.

Oberyn stretched out a bare arm. “Am I real? Pinch.”

He brought her up to his knee, and dandled her. “You are a Prince's daughter, Nymeria. Do you like it?”

She nodded. At least, she liked it; and he liked her calling him 'father', or even 'mylord father', or however she would have it.

Yet he could bequeath her no name, no title, no crown... No more than life: hers. _You were lucky, child._ Nymeria could be herself only: she would never be a pawn, and Oberyn pledged to himself once more she would never be put down, nor she would feel ashamed for being a Sand.

\--o--

Only the soft thuds of their horses' hooves marked the ride time. A hush had fallen upon them; they set off before daybreak, to make the best of morning coolest hours, so Nymeria was drowsy, while Oberyn was pensive. The outriders put out their torches: the master of horses, with some men-at-arms, was escorting them to the Water Gardens. At the sight of their walls looming violet at distance, in the pearly dusk of incoming dawn, the prince unwittingly slowed down his mount's pace, wondering how Obara would like her sister. Nymeria was princely enough to trouble him, and taking her to Dorne had not been his best notion; Mellario was right. If he had judged Obara's mother inadequate at best, he was not proving much better. He had that magic touch with his daughters, and always mucked up everything to a dismal failure.

Oberyn turned to the East. The sun was rising red, and its mirrored light outlined a dark spirited steed skimming upon the water where the sea rippled in shimmering orange waves: the low tide shallows before the Gardens, he remembered. The horse wheeled and made for the narrow sandbars that soared in dunes far behind them. Oberyn reined up and looked appreciatively at the small rider, who was effortlessly driving his horse up the slippery steep sands. In a twinkling, he glimpsed the sun and spear sigil sheen; maybe just a trick of light and water, though a good omen: the Martell sun in its glory.

“Quite the horseman. One of your stable boys?” He turned to his master of horses; the rider could only come from the Water Gardens. “He deserves a better mount; see to that.”

The master of horses snorted. “Aye, m'lord, as you wish. The very best, to be sure.”

The steed had reached sounder ground, and he could hear him speeding up and a quickly approaching dull clop.

“Father!” the sea-breeze brought him the shout from afar and Oberyn wheeled and darted back to her, his stallion’s hooves spraying sand.

“Well met, Obara. If I'm not mistaken, you promised me not to ride alone, while I was away.”

“Not to ride _Red Sand_ alone. This is Sun.” A breathless Obara pointed out. “I obeyed. You can ask the master of horses.”

She spurred forth to the main group, and outreached him.

“You are my sister Nymeria, I guess? I'm Obara; did father told you about me?”

Oberyn fell in behind his daughters; and hoped Nym, too dozy to remember her courtesies, would forget for once her “Lord father” .

“Nice to meet you, sister. He didn't tell me you were such an awesome horsewoman, though. I wish I could ride like you.”

Obara laughed. “You will. When I came here, I could scarcely sit a horse. Our father breeds the finest horseflesh in the Seven Kingdoms.” She patted her mount neck. “Sun, there is a good lad; but you ought to see my Red Sand!”

Nymeria was quite impressed with her newly acquainted sister. “I thought you were shy; father told me as much.”

“Not ahorse.” The master of horses put in.

Oberyn caught up with his daughters, leaned on his saddlebag, unfastened it and fished out a parcel.

“Obara, from Volantis we brought you a Dothrakhi whip, with a dragonbone hilt. There will be other gifts later, but you rode so impressively you deserve it now.” Oberyn gave her the present, and slightly bowed. “Consider it an apology for forgetting telling Nymeria how clever you are.”

The lash was uncoiled, traded from hand to hand and duly admired, before being returned to its beaming owner.

“I'd better go now, before the Lady Mellario realizes I'm not with other children breaking their fast.” Obara set heels on her steed and waved to them. “See you at the Gardens.”

“I'd say it was you who set up this show.” Oberyn asked the horses master; “Why didn't you tell me before she got that good?”

“No good to spoil the surprise, m'lord. And you can't really tell how good she is in a yard. Even the master of arms says she is not bad.”

“So much for her shyness!”

“Every father would be pleased with the boy, m'lord. I mean, your little lady.”

Oberyn wagged proudly his head. “Obara is no lady. What she is,” he replied “Is my daughter.”

\--o--

In due course, after they were happily settled at the Water Gardens, Nymeria Sand was officially introduced to the Prince of Dorne and his consort, and shebore herself _splendidly_ , greeted him in the Common Tongue, while Mellario had her pleasantries in Valyrian, and she just fitted in with easy grace as her place at court had always awaited for her: how could Doran raise objection whatsoever? His brother instead, shortly after came up him.

“You'd better pluck your Flowers from the Reach. It does not make sense rising her in a Septry while her sisters are here. Besides, Arianne voiced her disappointment at being so tiny if compared to her older cousins, and your last child should be about her age.”

“I have a good mind, but her mother will not let go of her of lief.”

“Just order Lady Alise to stop paying for your daughter's upkeep, and take her home.”

He would have to persuade Tyene's mother, who did never strike him as the pliant kind.


	12. A Septry in the Reach

A tourney beyond the Mander always carried some sort of risk, but that thrilled Oberyn Martell, all the more after King's Landing courtly pleasantries. In heated fight, it was easy to forget Dorne and the Reach were no longer officially at war, and even the gallants local knights would forgo the chivalry they so loudly boasted, and for once play it rough. So deep in the Reach, there was scarcely any fellow Dornishman, and Oberyn found himself suffering the brunt of aforementioned roughness.

He declined, out of pride and spite, the help of the maester of the house staging the tourney – another Tyrell lesser branch, go figure. Their roses were thriving, and rambled not only in Highgarden as well as they did in Oldtown, but pretty much everywhere else in the Reach.

He had hoped to get in less than a day to the Three Goddesses' Septry, largely renowned for its healers. Instead, it took him almost four, and when he arrived, he could scarcely sit his horse.

At first he grudged his name, lest his mischance be made jape of at the Red Keep, but soon saw no point in it, since the easily recognizable Martell sun emblazoning his clothes would give him away. The Septa keeping registers, cleanly ordered as Lady Alyse's ledgers, muttered a 'We are honoured, Prince. ' when recording him, and made him assured no one else would need to know about him. Their rule required to treat equally everyone, they were not wont to ask for unnecessary personal information, and the treasurer herself would once more recommend discretion to her sisters.

\--o--

Septa Lynette lifted her gaze from her embroidery, shaded the lamp with a hand and put it by her patient bedside table. His brow was still scorching; she squeezed some drops from a cool damp cloth on his parched lips, wiped his brow sweat with gentle strokes and sat back to her needlework.

She had been in care of many injured knights, young and old, handsome and ugly. From seven centuries her Septry sheltered everyone who had knocked at their doors, never asking, in so many years, so many wars, so many kings, which party they had fought for, nor their house sigils, nor whether they were true knights, robbers or commoners.

He stirred in his bed and, without raising his eyelids, uttered with a hoarse, hushed voice. “I'm bored.”

Lynette rose, tilted his head up and made him sip some honeyed water. “You can't even open your eyes, Ser. You are too weak to be bored, believe me; I'm the Septa nursing you.”

“Too young to be one.” He faintly smirked.

All the knights she had tended to needed to be fed, cleaned and nursed like suckling babes; most of them yet considered themselves dragonlords; but the ones she loathed – Mother forgive me – were those who looked on her as a silly little girl. This one was far younger than her - barely ten-and-eight, if her reckoning was right, as it usually was, as only fit to Septa Tryese's best pupil and Three Goddesses' _second_ healer. To her bitter discontent, she was the sort of woman looking half her age, which was kind of a nuisance, nor her order simple garb did help. More than once newcomers had mistaken her for one of the girls fostered at the Septry, and warned her to leave the inner cloister where Septas only were allowed, before seeing her badge.

“The senior healer, ninety and an inspiration to all of us, is now visiting nearby villages, that don't enjoy the benefit of a maester, so you will have to settle for me. We pride ourselves on taking care of everyone who has come here looking for help, during the last seven centuries, to our best ability: for smallfolk and High Lords are all the same to the Seven's eyes. That's why knights are stripped of their sigils, before being allowed within.”

The treasurer would anyway see to charge the most skilled healers with people of consequence, to uphold the Septry renown, and hoping for richer gifts as well: that's why treating them, usually the worst patients, was too often her chore, when she would have sooner accompanied beloved Septa Tryese. It was too dangerous for her to roam around, to protect her beauty, her young age, her virtue, and only on her shortest trip she could join the old wizened women, with a nut-brown sun-seared face, worshipped by the smallfolk and rumoured to have been asked once for advise from the Great Septon himself. Lynette couldn't help think that beauty, youth and virtue, a woman's most valued assets, were instead noisome hindrances.

\--o--

When Septa Lynette opened the sickroom door, he managed to lift his eyes up to her. She had brought a book along with her embroidery.

“My apologies.” His wispy voice sounded oddly endearing. “Too beautiful to be a Septa.”

She tucked a flaxen flyaway lock under her veil, with a quirk of disappointment. He was recovering too quickly, and she would have to check closely her attire from now on. Septas were wont to shave their head bare once a year, and now her unruly curly hair were still too short to be tied in a knot, but long enough to escape her wimple.

Septa Lynette tried not to reply too sharply.

“I deem myself very lucky, ser, to be a Septa, even if I'm so young and beautiful.”

To put an end to the conversation, she began reading him from the Seven Pointed Stars; when she saw him asleep, she dropped the book, and moved to her embroidering.

“Please go on.”

In their weakness, many turned to the Faith, to forget about it once they recovered. Sometime Septa Lynette wondered if her healing job was really to the Seven's greater glory or rather _against_ them.

“I didn't presume you were that interested in the Faith?” She couldn't help wondering in a slightly rebuking note.

“Indifferent reading.” He added feebly after a while. “Just like your voice.”

“I won't tire you further, Ser.”

“You spared me some boredom, instead.”

“You'd better get some sleep.”

Lynette told herself she should not be nettled by a blunt answer, for once a true one; he had even tried a faint apology, and she could as well choose something more entertaining for the sake of his moral progress: he might actually listen.

“Would the _Life of Baelor the Blessed_ do?” She offered before leaving.

“He is haunting me.”

“The Seven are touching you.”

“Jostled me roughly, daresay.”

“Maybe it's a sign, so you might atone.”

“A sign I'm doomed.” He wheezed. “To die of boredom.”

He tried to laugh, instead he coughed, and the pain turned it into a choked gasp. Lynette tipped a cup of sweetsleep against his lips.

“What would you have me to read? I fear there is not much appealing the likes of you in our Septry.”

“Healing, herblore... ”

“Of course we have.” Lynette proudly stated.

“Which would you suggest?”

“The latest from the Citadel would do? We just received: _What can heal, can also kill_.”

“Its latest revision?” He made an effort not to cough. _“The_ Greenleaf? Quite a book.”

“I agree; still not everything worth knowing is written.”

Lynette was amazed by his keen interest: she could tell from his muscular body he was for sure a knight, and most couldn't tell a turnip from a chickpea, while he knew _the_ Greenleaf by his pet name. Reading to him could be interesting to her too.

\--o--

“Why are you a Septa? You are so young and so beautiful.”

“Because I'm so young and so beautiful.”

“You said the opposite, I seem to recall.”

“Have you been poring over my words all day to use them against me?”

“I had nothing else to do.”

“Words are wind.”

“Still, I'm curious.”

“Beauty and youth are often harmful to a woman.”

Her maidenhead, youth and beauty just commodities to be traded, were she lucky, or robbed, were she not. Lynette had escaped all that, by becoming a Septa. No man could now tell her what to do, what to say, what to think.

“A bliss.”

“For someone else to enjoy.”

“To you?”

“A nuisance. Have you idea how many times...” Septa Lynette bit her lips.

“Idiots like me... Please go on. Did I mention I like your voice?”

“Suppose I am a good-to-nothing just just for my looks?” She blurted.

“And think you are wasted as a Septa?”

“Wasted to their liking; not to mine, for sure.”

“Fools... If you were put... To other uses, who would care for them?”

“Would they rather have incompetent crones?”

“I'd rather have you.”

Septa Lynette turned silently to her prayers.

“What are you muttering?”

“Pray for you, Ser; may the Mother give you health and the Crone wisdom.”

“What I need now is the Maid.”

A sentence, heard too many times from living and dying alike, to even care answering back. Once from from a shivering horror, already seized by the Stranger: Lynette's one and only kiss. A cruel wound had tore open his rotting guts, and his stench was worse than a corpse's.

“I could do with some wisdom, though. If only to avoid corny replies you have already suffered all too often from dolts such as me.”

\--o--

Septa Lynette closed sullenly to the sickroom doom, did not sit by his side, and gave him his potion without her usual smile.

“You guard your thoughts even more closely than your hair. Are they that unruly?”

Lynette's day had been a very long one; in her charges, a not so difficult childbirth with a pesky husband in tow, and she had not even time for her needlework. Painstaking embroidery never failed to soothe her nerves. She gave a worried tug to her veil, which got caught somewhere, and bristling with disappointment Lynette gave up and pulled it off. Her crop of hair was a poor lure and if he was the kind of godly fool to look shocked at a bare-headed Septa, let the Others take him.

Short loose curls framed her face, under his mocking and appraising gaze.

“If Cersei Lannister could see you now, she would cut her hair that short too, but would never be half as beautiful.”

“I doubt it. I bet mine are shorter than your squire's.” She said putting on her wimple again.

“Had she, she might have won Prince Rhaegar himself, whose hair are anyway longer than hers.” He went on undeterred.

Lynette had composed her veil again; and he was still staring at her. She frowned.

“What's wrong now?” Lynette was in no mood for riddles nor for pleasantries.

“Two coppers for your thoughts.”

“Two coppers _only_?”

“I'm sure your thoughts are worthier.”

“Are you sure you want to know?”

“I can guess. Another lordling flaunting castles in Valyria and acquaintances at court.”

“Mouthing great names he had seen a couple of time from afar. You are not the first one, ser, interested in something me other than my thoughts, trying to impress me. ”

He looked faintly bemused and not at all ashamed, as by rights he ought to be.

“But I'm interested in them _too_.” Was his brazen reply.

“Are you so dreadfully bored, Ser, to try to seduce a Septa?”

Lynette asked the treasurer to be relieved of her charge.

“You are behaving like a fussy little child. He still cannot leave his bed, you said as much, still need your best help and if he is recovering so quickly, before long he will be gone.”

After all, he could be _really_ well acquainted at court, if the treasurer was so keen on his well-being, and had heatedly reminded she should keep to her place and notoverstep into unwanted questions, Lynette sourly thought. To be sure, he could read her better than her sisters.

\--o--

“I think you owe my something; but I reckon my deduction worthier than two coppers.”

Stroking lightly her wrist, he tried to pull her to him.

She effortlessly set free of him. “Ser, you rather need to win your strength back.

“Promise me you will be very gentle then. I trust you have a theoretical grasp of the basics? A rehearsal, maybe?”

She tried her best, and closely followed his instructions, nonetheless old wounds bled afresh and new were made, pleasure and pain were traded with sweaty limbs and hushed gasps, silly names and broken vows entangled in blood-stained sheets.

“Why are you a Septa?” he asked her again come morrow. “Who are you?”

\--o--

He needed no more day long assistance, so, after her night inspections, she slid into his sickroom and slipped out of her clothes, and he was eager for her at night, as well as for her stories at dawn, when she leaved, for he always asked ““Why are you a Septa?” and she answered every time with a different tale, every time true.

Lynette could scarcely tell her own story, from those of girls raised at the Septry, and thrown abruptly into the wide wild world only to serve their house ambitions, or born in poor villages, bedazzled by some shining knight, and who would likely end up earning their living on their back, or even of other Septas: they all were hers, because they could have been.

Somehow, they were all similar; and Oberyn would have added to them Rhaella Targaryen's own, since with Elia's marriage he had come to know enough of the royal family to believe the Queen herself would have been far happier in a Septry than at the Reed Keep.

This story-telling became a play among them and went on for sometimes, but she knew it wouldn't last long: when he asked “Why me?” she realized that everything was over, and it was time for him to go. She tried to seal his lips with a last kiss, but he pulled slightly back and broke from it, stared at her, traced her profile and asked again “Why me, Septa Lynette?”

Lynette herself had wondered why, and now she knew. _Because you are asking me why. Because you can't understand why it happened. Nor can I._ Young, strong, bold, handsome knights. Who think overmuch of themselves, cocksure they are the best thing since sliced bread, and demand -or beg- to be told they are. Lynette was sick and tired of braggarts.

“Because you are a swaggering fool.” She answered bluntly. _I would never fall for one and you know._

“But I am.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [la rosée du jolie mois de mai](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TEFvZak0LOk)


	13. Tyene

He tethered his horse in a sparse copse overlooking well tended orchards and neatly arranged hives, all of them belonging to the Septry, along with a mill and barley fields sloping to the unhurried Mander on its wide course to the sea. The river easy abundance and its always changing yet almost unmoving waters softly murmured him soothing words of peace and calm, more than the ordered countryside. In Dorne water was treasured for, and born of effort, struggle, and strive, and he felt for it, unbeknownst in his deepest Dornish core, all the wistful passionate longing of a people who had to flee from the Rhoyne banks, where they had long dwelt, and seek for shelter in deserts, dry red lands, craggy mountains. The might of the greatest river in the world encompassing expanse, though, could not match the same serene simplicity.

Oberyn shrugged off his doublet left sleeve, artfully folded it to show its amber satin lining against the russet and topaz brocade, tucked it in his tooled leather belt with a smooth gesture, and looked pleased at the rich wine shades of his attire, a muted, toned down suggestion rather than a flashy exhibition of his house colours. If he did not look his best in this northern style, he could still cut a good figure. He adjusted a weighty sun emblazoned red gold chain, stretching his neck; he was not used to encumbering trappings. After preening himself, he considered for a while, and passed to his right wrist his bronze bracer, chased with a copper coiling snake, then rolled up his shirt billowing sleeve, but thought better of it and drew out his dirk dagger, and tore its pristine sandsilk in neat strips, then clenched his lips and drew the dagger on his arm. Nothing too vital, but bloody enough to grant him access to the Septry. He haphazardly bound up his wrist with some swathes, with a curse he vaulted on his horse, and in no time was at the gatehouse.

All the finery he was sporting was on display for the Septry gatekeeper's benefit. He was wise enough in the ways of the world to be justly confident the show of his costly attire, if not his scrape questionable severity, would earn him a visit from the senior healer. He was ushered to the infirmary, made to sit at a table, and as foreseen, she entered even sooner than he expected, followed by two novices. A lowered hood shadowed her face.

_Not a buzzing activity day; or she is eager to see me. Either way, it bodes well._

She bade the eldest girl, and she unwrapped his arm. Septa Lynette glimpsed at it, and muttered “Even a child could tend it.” The youngest – a child, actually – cleansed it with fresh water, and then a burning tincture, unstoppered a small jar and smeared the balm with light fingers. He startled at the sudden memories brought about by the pungent salve smell.

_I should have asked for the receipt, but it's likely a trade secret._

The child swathed him in fresh linen, and smiled trustingly at him.

“Is she – her?” He asked without waiting for an answer. “She has your very same dimples.”

Lynette gestured to the girls, who climbed up to the window seats and busied themselves with their needlework.

“So, here you are.” She warily replied. “What for?”

“Is it passing strange, I wish to see her?”

“You never felt the urge, before.”

“A war can change many things.”

“You are not here to see her _only_. You pay for her upkeep; you are entitled to come and see her as you please.”

“You, as well.” Oberyn saw fit an easy smile. “How do you fare?”

“I feared this day would come, though not as soon. The war bereft you of legit daughters, and forced you to forge new alliances with a child's betrothal.” Lynette's subdued tone grew harsher. “I should be glad of her early marriage in a noble house; once flowered, a bastard would be likely offered for the pleasure of a night to win a high-demanding fool's good graces.”

“Tyene has older sisters, all of them living with me now.” He couldn't help scowling. “And I need no fool's good graces.”

“So why? I hoped you would entrust her to the Faith. Here she could lead a godly life and put to good use her gifts.”

“It is not the only one she could live.”

Oberyn pleaded. “I'll never saddle her with any low-born or high-breed fool. She will be free to choose her life, and to pledge herself to the Faith, as you chose, so she resolved. How can she really choose, and decide, though, if she doesn't know of any world beyond a Septry sheltered life?”

 _That should give you pause, I trust_.

Lynette was unmoved. “You will delude her with flashy apparel, and make her forget cloistered peace. I have seen that already happening: she will put her trust in your hands, not in the Seven's, and then, she'll be a willing token to stake in whichever game you like.”

_Black velvet would have served me better. Sombre colours, though, never worked on me._

“That's not going to happen. She will not forget you, I promise.” That was a blind try. “She could come back from time to time, and stay here for a while.”

“You could have have her shipped to your demesne at your behest. Why did you come, and put up that farce of a nick? For a certainty, you need not my approval to take what you want.”

_Doran's course, as usual the safest. Yet I'm not my brother, and Tyene is not his daughter._

“Maybe it's not what I need, nor what I want. Maybe I mostly needed to listen to your voice, and your reasons; I always liked it. Even if you gainsay me, and tell me I'm a fool.”

“You are here to convince me. Don't you realize your lady wife could turn her life into misery?”

“I’m not married. Fear not, I’ll never get entangled with some high-maintenance gold-shitting fool and let her treat a daughter of mine like crap.” Oberyn tilted back his head and looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “My other twos will welcome her.”

Septa Lynette kept her eyes stubbornly downcast.

“You are taking her away from me: I have been selfish, and now I'm punished.” She muttered softly. “I wish I never birthed her.”

“I wondered why you did.”

“I should teach to let go of worldly cares and ties, but I will never learn. I had nothing left of you; not even your name, we are not allowed to ask.” She pulled down her hood, and fixed her gaze on him. “I wished for someone with your same eyes, to which I could read from the Seven Stars.”

“ _The_ Greenleaf as well, I take. You said she is gifted, and is growing as deft and skilled as you.”

“Don't flatter me.”

_I will never win her over; but it's not for me to give up._

“Did you ever wonder who her father could be?”

“I admit I tried an educated guess, ser: your drawl and your lust name you as Dornish, and not from a lesser house; you are not a man to be denied, I learned to my regret. Maybe a Dayne, such were he Sword of the Morning, and the Lady Ashara, if your boasted closeness to the late royal court was not a lie. Did I earn my two coppers, my lord?”

“Everyone remembers them.”

 _Even in a Septry far from earthly futilities._ Arthur Dayne though was not the only Dornishman in the Kingsguard; nor Ashara, by common consensus the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms, the only raven haired high born Dornish lady dwelling at Maegor's.

“You don't have their colouring, though.”

Oberyn was suddenly afraid her mother would never let go of Tyene, be it within his rights or not, had she knew who he really was.

_Let's downplay it._

“Not everyone looks Valyrian. My niece was black haired, like the Lady Ashara and me; while my nephew had purple eyes, and silver hair, as Arthur, or so I've been told.”

“ _Were_ they, my lord?”

“King's Landing Sack. You earned your coppers.” He laid two on the table, his voice teasing only by half. “Red and shiny as the sun of Dorne.”

“Is it my daughter’s price?” In her question, pride and grief were equally matched.

“A babe I never met,” Oberyn tapped his forefinger on the first coin, then flipped the second, “A lively little child.” He took both coins in his balled fist. “My sister. All the gold in Casterly Rock couldn't pay for them.” He dropped his guard. “That's why I need our daughter to call me father, and my children about me: I'm not a Dayne, Septa Lynette: nor of Starfall, nor of High Hermitage.”


	14. The Narrow Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oberyn's comeback to Dorne, after his mother's death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly off-canon, for Oberyn was present at his mother's death; but as Littlefinger would say, I like my tale better.

“You are lucky, there is a swan-ship from the Summer Island, setting out for Oldtown on the morrow.” The port officer says.

“A trader ship? I need something faster.”

“You won't find anything as fast. Spice ships are no common merchantmen, they are build for velocity: light freight, high speed, higher profits. The 'Feathered Kiss' is a beauty to behold, with her polished hulls, tall masts, and her billowing white sails. As swift as the wind can take her, trust my word. I could always judge a woman's seaworthyness at first sight, when I was younger. With a ship, I'm still up to it.”

In Braavos they sing of sultry courtesans and engage in water dances for them, but to an old Braavosi seaman, no woman could even compare to a ship.

“With a fair wind, I would not care for a galley. Fully armed as well; the Summer Islanders are fond of their longbows, and can loose arrows faster than Dothraki riders. Her only drawback is a too young captain.”

As a young mercenary captain himself, he doesn't heed the warning.

The captain is a young woman, who could pass as a boy, with her cropped, closely knitted hair and limbs as nimble and slender as her ship hull, and of the same rich colour of its planks dark wood; but seasoned in the trade, since she charges him an outrageous sum for the fare. He has no time to haggle further, after the Lady of Dorne's decease he has to hurry to his brother proclamation as Prince in Sunspear.

Once in high sea, the captain pays call on him, to see how he fares, and lisps in a broken Common Tongue. “Sintheres condolenthes on your mother.” The gap between her front teeth gives the shiny perfection of her warm smile a childish playfulness.

His Summer Tongue is a bit rusty, after so many years away from the Citadel, yet it will serve. “I do really appreciate your sympathy.” The passage fee soared as high as honour, but at least they know how to pamper their guest, and on-board treatment promises to be top-quality.

“I was told that is the Sunset Kingdoms use. Somehow lacking, if I may.” She answers politely, while her quizzical look lingers on him. “Was not your mother a great lady?”

“Princess Ashara, the Lady of Dorne in her own right deserves at least a toast.” He fills two cups with a choice vintage from his ample provision. Dornishmen are no seafarers, and Oberyn is exceedingly Dornish; strongwine is his favourite remedy to seasickness, utterly useless as many others he tried, but if he is going to be queasy, it had better be for a good reason.

“This side of the sea, I came to realize, women seldom get appreciated to their full worth.”

“Dornish views on the matter might be closer to the Summer Islands ones than you figure. My lady mother was a great mother, a great woman, and a great Lady of Dorne. ”

They lift their cups to the late Princess's memory. Suddenly a painful knot swells in his throat. Oberyn swirls his wine, unable to drink it up.

“I should have been by her side, when she passed away. I did not as much as preside over her funeral, set away her things, bid her my last goodbye.”

“You feel very strongly about it.”

“I was a disappointment to her, I regret: I have never been the most obedient, dutiful son.”

“I am sure you were not, and she loved you well all the same. As a mother, I would not content myself with my children being dutiful only; I want them strong-minded and self-reliant.”

“She got a son even overly so: I left Dorne not on best therms with my mother. I can't forgive myself for leaving without a proper farewell to her. I will never be able to make up for it.”

\--o--

“It's not for you to balk at this fence. I let you a free rein long enough; now it's time you wed, son.”

Oberyn had seen it coming from afar, and still dreaded the actual moment when it would come down to it.

“The girl is young, most beautiful, and high born as you can ever hope to get. You couldn't find a more suitable bride in Westeros.”

He sulked. “Beauty and high breed are sort of overrated as of late, I found.”

His mother glared disbelievingly at him.

“She is quick and high-spirited as well; breaking in horses is a children's play compared to taming a lioness; doesn't such a game entice you? You could mould her to your liking.”

 _You would saddle me with a poxy lackwit, were she Tywin Lannister's whelp._ Oberyn didn't dare openly object, though.

“The Hand is looking for eligible matches for his twins, I believe: I was told he broached Lord Tully about his girls. Your offer of marriage to his daughter will make up for her being passed over in Elia's favour. Lannister took it as a slap in his face and the man knows how to nurse a grievance.”

“Is it my fault _we_ won, and _he_ is such a sore loser?”

“You did earn yourself a copper link, still you learnt nothing from Dorne history. Nothing is conquered forever, until you turn your foes into your friends.” The Princess's brow quirked with disappointment. “Marry Cersei Lannister: charm her, win her good graces. You are quite good at it, I understand. A sharp, spirited and well-learned young man, so different from simpering courtiers: Lord Tywin never liked buffoons, and will be glad to grant his brilliant godson a small council seat at the earliest vacancy. Play your cards right, and you could be Rhaegar's Hand.”

“How thoughtful of you to plan in advance my life and career to the tiniest details... Have you already decided your grandchildren's names?”

“You have been given ample opportunity to choose, and never did. If you don't, I will choose for you. Think it over, Oberyn.”

The Princess of Dorne dismissed him and he went to Lady Ladybright seeking for solace and some pocket money as well, only to be further rebuked. She had for a certainty assessed the handsome sum a Lannister of Casterly Rock was entitled to, dowry-wise, and reckoned the bargainas _fairly acceptable_ : which, as trade talks went, translated as to drool over.

“The Princess is right. You should settle down: there is more in being a Prince than getting knocked off at tourneys and squandering your entire allowance – or even spending _more_ than its amount.”

“Alyse, sun of my life, what about missing to remind me of my latest mishap, for a change?”

The Red Keep had made plain it would not do anyone in the royal family close vicinity to be harassed about trifles of illegit child, so the Faith kept quiet, assured the mother would basically go away with it and be mildly sentenced to silence and prayer, and graciously allowed to be placated with generous offers from Sunspear coffins, which would henceforth put a disgraceful dent in his incomes.

“Do as your lady mother bids. Were you not to play your part as a Prince, you should earn your living and fend for yourself.”

“As you wish. I know better than arguing with women.”

“Why should you? Oberyn Martell knows all too well how to have us wrapped around his little finger.”

_Mother and her staunch lady treasurer? Never happened once; and not for lack of trying._

Thence it came Oberyn made for Essos, with a scanty purse, hoping to settle in Norvos, and help in their business Mellario's brothers, whom he got along with just fine, waiting meanwhile for the storm to pass overhead; but he was soon given to understand that settling as a respectable merchant was an enormity not even Oberyn Nymeros Martell was allowed to. A rakish rogue, a treacherous poisoner, a vicious braggart spoiling for a fight; as long as he fitted the evil aristocrat's book, he was dutifully frowned upon and disapproved as a shocking scandal, and all in all grudgingly accepted, and deep down even _proudly_ : for his unbridled misbehaviour stated a Prince could and would do as he pleased. Her brother dirtying his hands with trade like any commoner would have been instead an unspeakable taint on the queen-to-be, and Oberyn would have never hurt Elia nor harm her reputation; so he had no choice but to become a sellsword.

\--o--

“Your mother Tsara.. Was it her name?”

“Her consort called her Sarella, if it's easier for you.”

“You can trust she found in herself to forgive you. For your own mind peace you ought to reconcile with her and do your best to please her and earn her approval, and you will feel her forgiveness sweet blessing.”

“How could I? She is no more.”

“May I show you how we honour our loved ones' memory? The Lady Sarella deserves the very best: I take she will approve of, and you will enjoy it as well.” She smiles her gap-toothed smile, and tugs at his breeches fastenings.

The Lady Ashara of Dorne was honoured during the whole journey a way a Summer Islands Princess would have prided herself of, and Oberyn Martell did not suffer from seasickness ever again.


	15. Sarella

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quite lengthy, but I had to voice my love for Doran and its Gardens.

Areo Hotah had long entered his solar and delivered him a letter addressed to his brother.

_May mourning turn into joy, sorrow bring relief, memories birth hope._

Doran Martell perused the lines once more, as to winkle out their true meaning: no use he was still at the Water Gardens, if he could not puzzle out a scribble that had all of the suspicious colours of a code message.

_Late Princess would be glad._

A most troubling, ill-foreboding sentence. For a certainty, Oberyn was up to something: what he couldn't say, only try wild guesses. Prince Doran wasn't overly fond of any of them.

He called Hotah back.

“Where is Prince Oberyn, captain?”

“Riding ashore with Lady Obara, my prince.”

Since his eldest daughter had decided she was too old for the Gardens – she had never liked them much to begin with - his brother devoted to offer her the full benefit of an education not at all befitting a young lady and spent most of his time with her.

“With a proper escort, I trust.”

Hotah thudded his axe-aft on the floor and nodded.

“As only meet for a Prince of Dorne.” Doran frowned. “What about my daughter?”

“The little princess is playing with her youngest cousins.”

The Prince didn't know whether to worry or be thankful for it. Oberyn was aware two of his beloved daughters were in his hands, and any attempt would have been madness; yet his brother was no stranger to madness.

_Urge to meet you soon, and settle family matters._

If he tried to seize power for himself, what would be of Arianne and Quentyn? He had no legit heirs of his own, yet... His brother should not be allowed to marry.

He tapped the letter on his desk, scouring again its glyphs: written in Valyrian, likely in the hope the addressee only could understand it. Still, his brother knew full well he was not the only one; even some of the children and Hotah could, not to mention Mellario.

“Aero, what's your take on them?”

People not well known of were not allowed in the Gardens, and whoever called on Oberyn was even more strictly screened. Doran, by lucky chance there and soon warned, had sent Hotah to assess his brother's unheralded visitors; when they were told the Prince was otherwise busy, they dropped the Valyrian note for him and waited.

“The longbows name them for Summer Islanders. Their renowned goldenheart bows are quite difficult to come by.”

_Anyone could buy three longbows._

Doran frowned, but the captain went on making little of his prince's unspoken doubts.

“Besides, not anyone could slip a bowstring on them in one effortless move, smooth as summer silk.”

Areo Hotah had spent the time his Prince puzzled over the mystery letter sizing up the Summer Islander and their bows, wondering if Dornish horse archers' mobility could make up for longbows reach, and how to better deploy his men if it came to that, till one of them, in a broken Valyrian that nevertheless reminded the captain of home, friendly offered to show how to bend and string one, since he looked so interested. At a gruff nod that ill-concealed Aero's praise, he roared with a laughter he would gladly let him see how to nook and loose an arrow as well, had the Dornish an archery field long enough; for a flagon of strongwine, that is, for Feathered Kiss bowmen would never let fly a feather to no purpose. An enticing prospect, grudgingly turned down, for it was for his prince to decide whether they were friends or foes.

Hotah had a point, Doran conceded. The greenest boy could shoot a crossbow; goldenheart longbows were faster to load, had a longer range and allowed truer aiming, but mastering one was no boy job, and needed proper training and constant practice.

Still, the Prince of Dorne was not easily won.

_Or hire some bowmen from the Summer Isles his brother had no business with._

“Sailors, from the gait of them.” Aero closed his report.

_May fair winds blow upon you._

A signature scrambled in characters he could not make out. And a smudge; like a tiny thumbprint.

_Feathered Kiss Captain._

_And even buy a swan ship, crew, bowmen, captain and all._

Though, how could Oberyn afford it? The Lady Alyse had cut down his brother's allowance to a bare minimum. Someone might have helped him, but who? The Ullers, or the Blackmonts; Lord Qorgyle, maybe. More likely Lord Fowler, whose visits would scarcely raise questions for his daughters were fostered at the Gardens.

“See to the children safety, Hotah: the Princess and her cousins first. I don't like the look of it. Fetch my brother: I want him here.”

Fly a bird to Sunspear? If anything unsavoury was in the offing, the Summer Islanders' arrows would not miss a raven; sending a riders meant less men to defend the Water Gardens, and they would make for an easier target. Doran at last made up his mind.

“But before, summon the ship captain: I need time to make out the situation, and they must not leave, nor suspect.”

“At once, my lord.”

Doran rose and peered out from his solar arched gallery; his gaze brushed over the familiar pattern of pools, myrtle hedges, dragon-shaped topiary, fountains and orange trees, on a dark background of widespread pines umbrellas, and scanned the far horizon, where the sea could be felt in light pearly vibe more than actually seen. Were the Gardens safe from a seaborne attack? Dorne had always well availed itself of its harsh natural features. No deep drafting merchantman, not even war galleys would brave the treacherous and long reaching shoals before them; but a single ship could dare and achieve more than many...

_Wish I had a fleet. The Ironborn have one, and the Storm Lord; the Redwynes, and Lord Manderly as well. The Lannisters have a fleet. A fleet, and one to be built anew, needs money Dorne has not._

The Prince of Dorne deeply inhaled the breeze rich with sea foam, balmy flowers, and sharp leaves, and closed his eyes. By rote his fingers trailed a coil on a weathered marble slat. He should have them renewed; but the whimsical shapes salty air, sandy winds, and merciless sun had carved or rather dug out were old friends to him, since he had to sit for long hours in his mother's once solar. He regretted not paying enough attention back then; maybe thing would have turned out different; but boys never listen, and only time and experience can teach some lessons, as no sculptor, but only time, had outlined in stone the fancy pattern that now – it seemed to Doran – helped him to clear his mind.

_Still, if we had the money, we wouldn't have the men. The Dornish are no seafarers, and Greenblood Orphans with their poleboats are the best I can muster... Braavosi courtesans' pleasure barges are by far better manned than my would-be fleet._

What was Oberyn's plan, if he had any? Doran had never been able to make out what really roamed in his brother's restless mind, yet his unbridled behaviour had been enough to read him. Now, if he looked somehow steadier, he could glean no inkling of his intentions.

He was still leaning on the balustrade, hearing his wards splashing and shrilling at distance, when the Feathered Kiss captain was ushered in, with a little child in tow to his bewilderment.

Doran knew enough of the Summer Isles and did not blink at a woman in the capacity. After all, lady Ladybrigth was his treasurer, and that, to the Dornish annoyance, still drew some raised brows from the non-Dornish, who snickered at the poorest of the Seven Kingdoms even having use of a lord treasurer, and a _lady_ at that. Dorne had to make the most of what it lacked, from water to riches, and the Martells had dodged bankruptcy thanks partly to thrifty treasurers, and mostly to their relationships and canny marriages in the Free Cities, and Lady Alyse and her ledgers had been Doran's staunchest allies in winning his mother's consent to his wedding to Mellario.

He made her sit across his worktable. “I fear my brother was not apprised of your arrival, captain. How come you have dealings with him, if I may?”

“He boarded on my ship from Bravoos back to Lotus Port. It was about the time you take your seat as Prince of Dorne, I remember.”

_If we have no fleet, no money, no men, we can still use some friends in the Free Cities._

“Oldtown was to be the only port of call in the Sunset Kingdoms, but Prince Oberyn was in a hurry to reach Sunspear in time, and graciously paid for a detour to Planky Town.”

Her eyes brightened at the recollection.

_My little brother must have been more open-handed than usual... Not to mention that any ship with a Prince of my House on board is awarded free mooring and no customs fee within Dorne._

A gaggle of childish voices drew closer. The Prince solar enjoyed a commanding view of the pools, and the captain's girl was perched on the pink marble railing, an arm wrapped around a pillar, greeting the children below, at ease like a sailor in the rigging.

“Why there are so many sea-shells in the pink stone?”

“Here, Sarella.” The captain hushed her daughter.

Sarella? It didn't sound a name from the Summer Island; it was his own mother's nickname, affectionately used by her consort and her brother.

She climbed nimbly down, scurried to her mother, and while settling on her lap chirped nonchalantly “Are you my father? The man with the big axe told me you are a prince, and mother said my father is a prince from the Sunset Kingdoms.”

Well and good. Doran let out a long sigh, in relief and out of exasperation both. _If Mellario ever gets winds of it, Oberyn will be the last thing to worry about_. “I'm your uncle, Sarella. I trust the big man with the bigger axe will bring soon your father back. In the meantime, I'll be happy to show you the Water Gardens; but first, allow me to show you a token of my esteem, captain.”

The Prince of Dorne signed a warrant, and handed it to Sarella's mother, who unfolded and received it with the expected broad smile.

“Free berth and no customs duties, in every Dornish haven. I will tell Oberyn it's the most moving love letter I've ever received, prince Doran.”

“I hope you will call on us oft: my brother would be devastated, if you didn't.”

_For all his foolishness, carousing and dalliances, Oberyn never cared much for fools; in the Summer Islands as well we could find friends worth making._

Doran left his desk and scooped up his newly acquainted nephew, while the captain sauntered downstairs with the sea-man’s roll, or rather sea woman's. When they reached the lower archway, Doran gestured broadly “This is my favourite place of all places, the jewel on my kingdom crown: you can behold Dorne very soul mirrored in the Gardens beauty, for to us Dornish water and greenery are a bliss, to be treasured and celebrated.”

Sarella pointed in awe at a bulk looming inland, and tugged at her mother's feathery cloak, for once too shy to ask herself.

“Is that a threadwheel crane? Not even in Braavos I saw a bigger one.”

“Not quite so: it does not hoist cargo, but water, for this is a garden and not a port. I'll take you there, if you wish.”

Doran smiled, while leading the way along a crafty lattice of brick rills watering the orange trees roots. “The water at the pools is mostly brackish; we cannot afford to waste even a trickle of freshwater.” A breeze stirred the air, orange flowers flurried about and drifted in the stream; a dark, glossy leaf followed suit.

A thin smile played on his lips, and the Prince of Dorne brushed lightly a lush fern, screened by a glistening wicker frame by the screeches and fitful drip of the huge water wheel supplying the Gardens reservoir. Sarella soon mimicked him, and to her gleeful amazement discovered the leaves would furl up when touched underneath.

“An experiment, at first. My lady wife suffered from homesickness, and I tried to create here anew a corner reminding her of Norvos, where she hails from. Persuading anything from a cold, damp climate to live in Dorne proved a sore trial.”

“I remember my first mate mumbling our fare was drunk on salt water himself when Oberyn asked freshwaterfor the sprouts he was bringing back from Essos. Onboard water is worthier than Dornish strongwine. “

“You will be pleased to know most of them are alive and well.” Doran nodded, pleased she had been tactful enough not to mention Arbor gold, and brought for their consideration a pale, tangled, unhappy and utterly insignificant weed. “Ghost grass from the Shadow Lands, and quite the trove. It is supposed to grow taller than a horse.” He sighed. “I fear it does not agree much with our sun: once in Dorne it shrunk to a ghost of its previous self, and now it's shorter than Sarella.”

She wiggled free to check if it was true.

“At the Gardens there are children from all over Dorne, and some from the Free Cities as well; it's easier to make them at home than acclimatise some foreign plants. Flowers from your homeland thrive in the glass house, for winter nights can be cold even in Dorne. Not even the green-fingered Tyrells grow them in Highgarden.”

Sarella clapped happily, craned up her neck, sniffed a huge red bud taller than her, and whooped. “Just like the pool by grandparents' house, mother! Only the blue lotus are missing.”

Doran stroked her curly head. Even if she was a little girl and her features held only a faint likeness to her father, Sarella with her enthusiasm for everything reminded him keenly of the over-curious child his youngest brother had been. Hearing her ceaseless jabbers and titters, holding her up wriggling, and trying to sneak away everywhere was like holding him again. Somehow, her looking so different made the resemblance more striking; she was kid Oberyn came back.

The Prince was still proudly lecturing on his beloved Gardens history, when Oberyn, as breathless as fuming, called out from a side alley.

“Doran, what's up? You are even more secretive than mother. Why did you send Hotah for me? As usual, he won't tell anything: on which ground am I under arrest again? Obara would not let go of me, and tried to bite him. I had to calm her down.”

He caught up with them, stopped genuinely puzzled at the Summer Islander, and seized her by the elbow. “You! Here! Why?”

“That's him, little one.”

Oberyn did not as much as glance at the nestling bairn cradled in Doran's arms. “Another addition to the Gardens collection?”

“I dearly hope so.” His eyes bored into his brother.

“Could anyone bother to tell me what the Seven hells is going on here?”

“Don't worry, child: your father is not nearly bad tempered as he sounds, and you will get used to his snarls in no time.” With that, he handed her to an even more befuddled Oberyn. He was completely at loss, and Doran was fully and thoroughly enjoying the the most unusual fact _he_ had managed to bewilder into astonishment his flighty brother.

“Her?” Oberyn picked her up and raked them all with a quizzical gaze; then, to his brother: “How did it come you knew before I did?”

“I am the Prince of Dorne. People tell me all sorts of titbits.” Doran tried his best to conceal a smug smile, and did not succeed. “Of course, the father is always the last one to know.”

The captain answered instead “Sarella is your daughter, Oberyn. I named her after your lady mother: a sure sign the gods were pleased. I should have told you, and let you know her earlier, but I steered far from the Sunset Kingdoms: every port I called news grew more and more worrying. I was afraid for her, and of what could happen if she were known as your daughter. I am at ill-ease even now, and I had my best bowmen escort us in full gear just in case.”

“I guess the two of you would enjoy a long private talk.” The Prince of Dorne excused himself. “I'm sure Sarella's sisters are eager to meet her, and I'd better gather them for a proper welcome.”

Sarella waved her uncle good-bye from her father's arm.

“The Prince of Dorne voiced his hope for some new green sprout from the Summer Islands to grow here.” She looked searchingly at him. “Did he mean our daughter, by chance?”

Oberyn knew his brother. “Likely both.” He laughed and snaked an arm around her waist, holding Sarella with the other. “Would you object? A ship is no place for a little child; I promise I will keep her safe, and never let Sarella near the pools.” After Obara's accident, he was still quite antsy about the issue, even if his eldest now swam well, and was good at it as at riding.

“ _My_ ship is not a dangerous place to _my_ daughter, and by the men-at-arms about Westeros is still a tinderbox. I don't wish for her to be raised as a helpless, sheltered, spoiled little princess, afraid of shallow waters. When she grows up, I would rather have her learn a trade, and earn her place in the world.”

“I do insist. My House name still demands some respect; I will protect her. ”

“Yours is a fine name indeed, but a name only is a poor shield.”

Oberyn Nymeros Martell bridled at it: she presumed too much. “You are speaking to a prince of Dorne, not to some dockhand.”

“Names are good and well. No sailor would man an ill-named ship, I give that to you, but come storm, you want a sturdy hull, and longbows at hand, when reavers are in sight; and still, a ship is only as good as her crew.”

 _He was a Prince of Dorne, not a dockworker._ And what of it?

He could not even bestow his daughter his own name, but only grant her a bastard name, a name of no matter, and even if he could, it would make no matter as well. Did the name 'Nymeros Martell' matter? Could it protect Elia? Or be a shield to Rhaenys? Had they been Sands, his sister would have not married Rhaegar Targaryen, and his niece would have been safely far from the Iron Throne.

“In case she stays, I'll teach her how to master a proper longbow. You make much of them, but your Dornish bows are just good enough to toy with.”

Frail Elia had a husband to protect her, yet Prince Rhaegar had forsaken her; had the Kingsguard to protect her and her children, amongst them two Dornishmen, the famed Sword of the Morning and her own uncle, and Jaime Lannister, after Dayne the best sword in the Seven Kingdoms, and by rights her paramour, but prince Lewyn went to meet his fate at the Trident, and Arthur to Dorne; Ser Jaime, anyway was in King's Landing, and who better to shield her from a Lannister army? Still, no one - not even he, her brother - was there for poor, weak Elia; and Elia of Dorne, alone, fought like a tigress for her children, for her son Aegon, heir to the Iron Throne, and maybe lawful king in the nick of time before they were smashed to a pulp.

The Prince of Dorne fell in with them, followed by a gaggle of girl, who greeted their newest sister, soon agreed a sibling from the fabled Summer Island was the coolest thing ever, for they were much farther and more exotic than the Reach, or even the Free Cities, and pleaded their father to let them show her around. He grudgingly let go her.

Doran looked at him; his troublesome brother was troubled, his still dull eyes staring in sorrow at a group of children, everyone so different, yet all so equal.

Obara, barefooted in a linen tunic, with a torn sleeve and missing another, who had just hurriedly joined them, hastening as usual; Nymeria, who wore her bare skin as she was dressed with samite and brocade; Tyene and Arianne, one with a soft tuft of blonde straight hair, the other with a tumble of black ringlet, naked as well, together as always; and the youngest one, dressed in a foreign style garb of fluttering coloured feathers, so lithe she could as well fly away at the lightest breeze.

Birdie, he reminded, Oberyn had once told him they would call him at the Citadel. Each of them so different, all with the same dazzling and daring, alluring and defying eyes, full of life and laughter, his brother seemed to have lost forever.

He was staring at the girls – _their_ girls, Doran realized – or rather beyond them, and he wondered if Oberyn could see the same he did. Doran had been watching from afar his younger siblings playing at the pools and growing up; likely his nieces reminded him of Elia even more piercingly than they did their father. Nym's bearing, Tyene's sweetness; and Obara, so unladylike _,_ even less princely, and so fiercely overprotective of her father, as if he of all men needed a little girl's help. Doran shook his head: Obara, more than all, for Elia never failed acting the big sister to Oberyn, unwaveringly took his parts even with their mother, fully aware he was wrong and wilfully getting into troubles more often than most.

Doran stepped closer and heard him muttering. “I was never meant to be a father.”

Nor I to be a Prince, for a Prince of Dorne had poor use for trust, and Doran was sick of mistrust and misgivings, he didn't allow himself to think. “Yet you are.”

  
  



	16. Ellaria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oberyn settling at the Water Gardens with his daughters; Ellaria's glimpse into an extended family routine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized belatedly I needed Ellaria not just as a POV, so added a tail to introduce the next devolopments.

He woke to a moist kiss at his spine base, and returned a grazing touch on her shoulder, while she looped her arms about him.

“Lovely night, Ellaria.”

“Lovely, my prince.”

Golden morning haze flooded the room.

He rolled over onto his back and she flicked her tongue to his navel, her forefinger trailing southward.

“No.” He grabbed her wrists. “Come up here. I'm not sure I can remember your face.”

He looked at her with half-lidded eyes, and half a smile. “I'm afraid I forgot your left nostril. Will you ever forgive me?” She chuckled and run her hands through his sleep dishevelled hair. “What are you waiting for, Ellaria? Back to your job.”

“You presume.” She replied. “You can't just order me around, my prince.”

“Am I not your prince?”

Ellaria tapped on the bedsheets. “Titles don't hold here.”

“Good.” He craned up his neck and sucked hard on the soft skin below her ear. “Do you think you could remember my name, and call me Oberyn from now on?”

“I will try, my prince.”

He pinched her. “That won't do. Try harder.”

“Oberyn.” She blew away a wisp of hair at his eye corner. “Oberyn.” She lightly kissed his cheek. Oberyn again, her teeth scraped at his throat. “Nymeros.” a lingering nibble at his left nipple. “Martell.” Ellaria licked and lapped the other with a teasing tongue, while Oberyn stretched lazily his right arm and pillowed his head on his bent elbow, idly carding his fingers through her luscious tumble of tangled locks.

He moaned after a short while: “Nymeros feels lonely.”

She instead traced a long pearly jagged line on his chest. “Neat scar.”

“You are such a tease, Ellaria.”

“Are you not, Oberyn?” she countered. “Have scarcely seen such a striking cut in a man still alive.”

“Tyene's mother best work, I daresay.”

“Who is Tyene?”

“One of my daughters.”

“Now there's an interesting story.” Ellaria giggled and lay back. “Did she try to slice you in halves after or before you got her with child?”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but in her capacity as a Septa, she nursed some wounds I gained in a tourney of no consequence and is responsible for my scar neatness _only_. ”

“Is the _Life of Baelor the Blessed_ down there her keepsake?” Ellaria had wondered at such a book so boldly displayed in such a man bedchamber. “How even more thrilling, my-”

“Oberyn.” He cut her off with a smack on her buttocks. “You are not at all good with names, Ellaria, I fear. Shall we set up a little game of forfeits?” He hit her again, and harder, then moved to knead the stinging target, but Ellaria bent her leg and kicked aside his hand.

She obediently purred 'Oberyn', he caught her ankle and rewarded her with a tickle.

He went on. “Her weapon of choice was the Seven-pointed-Star, deadlier than any injury I got, and I was lucky she agreed to better arousing readings. I couldn't pull round another Befuddled, I already had a bellyful of it I had teaching the Common Tongue to Nymeria's mother – in case you ask, she is my second – so dreary a book we soon felt compelled to move to more entertaining exertions.”

“I'm even more curious now: how did you seduce her? ”

“Did I, really? I was under milk of the poppy at the time and I can't be hold wholly accountable; if I ever did, I did it unwittingly...”

“Drugged and unaware, were you? That was the way of it; a Septa seduced you. Who would think Oberyn Nymeros Martell suffered from fake modesty so badly?”

“To atone for it, I'm willing to claim full responsibility for whichever I did you last night.”

“Too far fetched. Didn't you learn anything anew?”

“Would that I had never left Lys; alas, you are an exacting judge, Ellaria, you weighed me and found my pillow play awfully lacking.”

“Hence I demand the defendant well and truly confesses everything about aforementioned Septa. For truth sake, tell me what stirring books you read.”

“She was not a mere Seven-thumper. The most interesting one was a treaty on healing and herblore by maester Embrose.”

“I beg your pardon, even duller than your beloved Baelor.”

“ _The_ Greenleaf? Never. Still Tyene's favourite reading, as it happens. Children love pictures, and every other page you find a brightly coloured fruit, a strange shaped flower, and the likes: she learned her letters on it. Anyway, rise and just have a look at _my_ Blissful Baelor, Ellaria.”

She got up, clad only in muted sweetness of a once heady and now faded fragrance, stepped to open the imposing tome, flipped a few pages, that gave the soft, almost luscious rustle of top quality parchment, and hooted.

Her goddess did not require books.

She hoisted it, her lithe arms tensing with the effort, and sashayed back to him.

“Wondrous illuminations, I would say.” She fluttered at him her long lashes. “Lavish use of lapis lazuli blue. It must have cost you a fortune.”

“Worth every single groat.” He let out a soft laugh.

She laid the book on the bed edge; sat, and browsed through it.

“Quite unorthodox, so to speak; may I assume as well your proclivities are somewhat of unconventional, Oberyn?”

“You may. I best like variety. Monogamy, monotony do not sit well with me. I get easily bored, I'm afraid.”

He picked up an ivory comb she had left on her side bedstand and followed with his thumb the shapes carved on it: two women reclining on its curved top, one proudly offering her unabashed nakedness, the other alluringly looking over her bare back.

“Exquisitely wrought. A regular adorer's gift?”

“My mother's keepsake. She was from Lys.”

He took in her profile, leaning on his elbow.

“A real Lyseni, are you? You favour your father in colourings though. Not that I hold any complaint; your black sheen would put to shame any silver.”

He sat up, and glided the comb through her glossy hair. Slowly, as his gentle strokes smoothed out the knots, she leant into him, resting her neck on his shoulder. Ellaria coiled up her hair, and he pinned them high on her head, discovering the pulse spot on her collarbone. He didn't fight the urge to kiss her right there.

“Speaking of boredom and amusement, I flirted with the idea of drawing out our deal for a fortnight, in order to get better acquainted, with no risk of tiring of each other. Would you agree to such?”

“I might seriously consider it.”

“If so, would you mind meeting with my girls, Ellaria?”

“Your own daughters, Oberyn?”

“Mayhap I should tuck you away and keep you locked room, for my own pleasure... Sounds alluring, doesn't it? However, if you are going to stay for a while, you'd better get to know them. They should stay mostly with other children here at the Gardens, but I enjoy having them around, and I'd rather not have awkward moments as well as uncalled for entanglements, in a manner of speaking. I trust you'll get along: things could turn out messy otherwise.”

Ellaria squinted at him over her shoulder. “Do I need their approval, my prince?” She let slip his title out of amazement, but he instead lingered an apologetic kiss on her shoulder blade.

“I am not willing force anything on them; I regret I have been remiss with my duties as a father, and they are not much trained as to blind obedience.” His proud smirk was at odds with his words. “Besides, allow me to be blunt; how many lovers have you had, Ellaria?”

“And you, Oberyn?” she come back with.

“I could name some, but never bothered counting. If you did, I hope you forgot. How many fathers: did you ever count?”

\--o--

“Girls, that's Ellaria. She is -”

“Going to live here for a fortnight.” The eldest huffed, uninterested.

“This is Ellaria Sand -”

“Is she a Sand like us?” The youngest asked with anticipation.

“Not quite so. She is Lord Uller's daughter, sweetling.” A faint disappointment pursed her lips.

Seemingly, no one had ever bothered telling them they should not break in when their father was speaking, who on his score looked blithely unconcerned.

When he was picking up again their introduction, Ellaria cut him off and whispered “Oberyn, there are four of them: you said you had two daughters!”

“Did I?”

“Do you have any others?” She inquired.

“Not that I know of.”

He at last got through the presentations. “Sarella, Obara, Nymeria, Tyene: this is Ellaria Sand, Lord Uller's daughter. Make her welcome: she is -”

“Going to stay for a fortnight. Nice to meet you, Ellaria!” The four chorused gleefully.

They looked fully aware of their father's demeanour, and equally untroubled by it. It was plainly not quite the first time the same scene had been staged, and Ellaria found almost funny Oberyn's concern about their reaction to the news.

\--o--

The first, at least the first one Mellario got winds of, since Oberyn was not wont to trumpet too loudly his affairs - who did, in his opinion, had poor affairs to begin with - was a serving girl, at once kicked off, without him even knowing. When he questioned about her after a while, Mellario feigned surprise at his interest in a wench so _beneath_ him; even a vapid petty lord of no mettle to speak of, afflicted by scant imagination and even sluggisher initiative, could have his easy way with a scullion, at which he couldn't but agree. Woefully, the Prince of Dorne had left him little to no option, since he was still pent in the Water Gardens albeit loosely guarded, yet her accusation stung, and Oberyn suspected there was a small measure of truth in Doran maintaining sweet Mellario not sweet at all.

He could come and go as he pleased, so long he had Prince Doran's leave; otherwise, Aero Hotah had made that plain, he would not have been allowed back. That is, never to see his daughters again; and storming the Water Gardens gates whenever he fancied some time off was not that convenient. The Captain had not even to thud his axe bottom to have Oberyn flouncing back roundly cursing him, his prince, and his lady.

Mellario, anyway, drove home her message: _she_ disposed, the Gardens were _hers_ , _she_ was in charge of staff and household, and he would let them be, thank you, if he was to live peacefully under her rule.

The second one – the one Oberyn made sure Mellario would know about – was Franklyn Fowler, Warden of the Prince's Pass and arguably one of the foremost Dornish Lords, fond father of his twins he often visited at the Water Gardens where they dwelt as Doran’s wards and Nymeria’s best friends or upcoming ladies in waiting. Mellario got the clue as well, and begged her husband to relieve to some extent his brother's forced seclusion, and the Prince of Dorne relented. Oberyn's tireless devotion to infamous whorehouses and winesinks in the Shadow City, though, was a security nightmare, since his favourite joke was getting his own escort drunken beyond oblivion, as Aero Hotah dutifully relayed his Prince. To the Captain's solace, the princeling was allowed a little more freedom, enough to resume a social life of sorts, enlivened by random hookups, and he took to bring back some company from time to time; bed-warmers, Mellario would call them, and he had recovered all too well, and he could as well go back to Sunspear; but Doran would rather have him at the Water Gardens, and Oberyn was loath to part from his daughters.

Oberyn pleaded, and cooed, and charmed; in a word, Oberyn was Oberyn, did as he pleased, and Mellario had to yield. Still, Mellario was Mellario, she was not having any of it, and paid back on Doran, who outdid himself to soothe her in his rational, sensible, pondered way; at which, she only grew madder, and harsh words, best left unspoken, were traded, till Oberyn had to act as a peacemaker between them, for he just couldn't abide a woman crying for someone else, and poor Mel was sobbing in her Myrish lace finest handkerchiefs, so the Prince of Dorne even withstood his younger brother's mild chide: why couldn't he get along with her, such a lovely and pliant little prig?

As for prudery, Doran thought sourly, Oberyn could scarcely tell Baelor the Blessed from Lucamore the Lusty; and Mellario, though small sized, had not certainly been lovely and pliant to him.

“I will have no more of Oberyn’s by blows calling me auntie Mel; the Water Gardens should be the Prince of Dorne's apple of the eyes while you turn a blind eye on your brother who keeps mistaking them for a Lyseni pleasure garden and is turning them into his own pillow house; you are crumblier than a wintercake to his whims.”

A wintercake Doran could not swallow, for when they were newly wed, and at times even after, Mellario was wont to call him 'my wintercake' in a throaty, coy, endearing and – gods be good – positively _dirty_ voice, that never failed to get him besotted head over heels and he would forever cherish among his brightest memories.

So Oberyn just asked his casual partners to keep to his apartments with a faint semblance of discretion, and to be so kind as to lounge around the Gardens after the children had supped, while Mellario let his daughters call her auntie Mel, and she kept praising Tyene's needlework, because she was Arianne’s closest friend, and Nym went on attending lessons with her cousin, for she was from Old Volantis, and not even the green-haired Archon's daughter could speak purer Valyrian: how unfair to strip her daughter of such an opportunity! Nymeria's illegitimate birth, besides, was not entirely Oberyn's doing, and even Mellario had acted her part in the family plot; and still she tried to teach Obara some manners, unbeknownst to her father, and couldn't help cuddling Sarella, for she was the Gardens pet.

Auntie Mel couldn't anyway help wringing her nose at her nieces’ chance remarks about their father's latest liaisons, and betimes gasped at Arianne's abrupt mention of her uncle's beuax.

\--o--

“What about a horse ride together later?” Oberyn put forward.

Half hidden behind a a platter heaping with fruits not even the Greenleaf had ever contemplated of, Sarella squealed with glee, while Obara sprung up “I go get horses ready.”

“Please, sit down and eat up your breakfast.” Oberyn turned to his eldest and put his hand on her shoulder, and Sarella seized the moment to climb up to her father's lap, who lent her a helping hand to settle snugly. “Tyene, are you all right? You did not take much.”

“I'm fine, father: I slept with Arianne and already had some wintercakes. May our cousin come with us?”

“Of course she may. I'm taking Ellaria with me, and each of you can bring one of her friends.”

“Auntie Mel will be upset I can't attend.” Nymeria was torn, and tipped gracefully her head toward a glyphed book by her side. “She has a rather unfortunate voice, when it comes to singing, and asked me for a poem I would not only read but properly chant...”

“Her little Princess is riding with us, and most likely Mellario will put off today Valyrian lesson, Nym.” Oberyn thumbed through the book. “Which one did you pick? We will be glad to hear you.”

A sudden uneasiness seized Ellaria, aware that auntie Mel and cousin Arianne were Mellario of Norvos, praised beauty and wife to the Prince of Dorne, and his daughter, the heir to Sunspear.

He smiled at Ellaria. “You understand Valyrian, I trust?”

Ellaria nodded and Nymeria showed her father the page. Soon outrageously sticky tiny fingers reached for the book, Oberyn warned “Sarella!” and curled his left around her plump paws. He read its first verses, Nymeria intoned the second, and at his beckoning Ellaria followed them with barely a glance at it.

“I should reckon even singing in High Valyrian among your noteworhty skills. Without as much as reading the poem, I might add.”

“I know it by earth, the Red Apple is my favourite.”

She leant to him coyly, unaware of being just above Sarella's curly head, who chirped zestily “I too like apples best!” , heedless of the lavish display of exotic fruits before her seat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Jamin-a](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g54Le1X3cKU)


	17. The Lady Nym

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Where everything goes wrong, from Ellaria's point of view._

The tiled courtyard where the Prince led Ellaria - hard-packed earth in Dorne would soon turn into dust - was chequered with suns and spears and already crawling with all and sundry: whooping children, that is Oberyn's girls and their friends, prancing horses and whining ponies, who snorted and wagged their manes, and stable hands yelling at them and cursing at each other.

Tyene had taken Arianne with her, who on her turn had Garin in tow, and no one would dare thwart the Dorne Princess-to-be; then it was unseemly to deny Nymeria her two friends.

“That's regular.” Oberyn let it pass with a shrug. “The Fowler twins do everything together, and are Nym's best friends. Anyway, Obara has sadly none, while Sarella makes friends with anyone, and would not let anyone down by choosing one over another. In the end it all adds up: eight as planned.”

She held her tongue - _if I am ever going to have children, I will not allow them to grow up that wild:_ his daughters mistook obeying their father and doing as they pleased, and he was not about to disabuse them _._ In Ellaria's opinion, Oberyn was in no want of a bedwarmer, but in dire need of a Septa, and of the stern ilk; then Tyene's mother occurred to her; if he could barely grasp the difference, paid it little mind.

Ellaria looked about, peering at the horses with wary interest: Obara was already sitting an impressive steed, pushing the others to get ready, and in the general commotion she unwittingly drew too near to Oberyn's eldest daughter.

She soon reined up the magnificent beast she was riding.

“B'ware, m'lady!” She called out in an astonishing Oldtown dockside accent.

“Obara, _my lady,_ please!”

“ _Lady_ Nym, please!” Oberyn soon mocked Nymeria's uppity tone, stiff countenance and scowl so vividly all the girls laughed, even Obara who was gentling her horse, and Ellaria joined their laughter, yet she didn't miss the nearly grievous peeks he flicked at his two eldest.

“I'm sorry I frightened you, Ellaria. Red Sand can be a bit... Temperamental with stranger.”

“I am quite all right. Is he a Sand as well? We are already half-acquainted, then.”

Oldtown dockside. _The Docks._ Ellaria knew them in name only, and girls born there, if not hopelessly ugly, would quickly grew up into whores, for lack of better options; the prettiest would soon try to move, and deny they had ever heard of the place. Obara was not hopelessly ugly; neither was she pretty, and had known the Docks long enough for the accent to stick and burst out, even more strikingly highlighted by her thin veneer of courtly manners, whenever she was somehow upset, and every time her father was reminded of her unfortunate birth.

She tried to read his same painful look, even more sorrowful, at Nymeria. A graceful little lady, who sported a fancy interpretation of a riding attire according to the latest trends; though shy of ten she had a queenly poise, and her retinue as well: the Owl's brood were mirroring her way of speaking - though fluent, her wording had a foreign flair - her gestures, her veil fashion. Nymeria looked born to bear a crown, but overindulging her with fineries and Valyrian lessons would not make up for a fitting station, the one thing her father could never grant her.

The mishap was already forgotten and Prince Oberyn assessed with a pleased glance his own notion of a neatly arranged children party, that elsewhere would justly pass as an hellish turmoil. He anyway had the situation well in hand, and to Ellaria's surprise, at his terse orders a militarily arrayed column was in high gear to move.

“Father! May I join the outriders?” Obara patted her horse's muzzle. “Sand is still skittish, a race will do him good.”

Prince Oberyn nodded, with a complicit grin. “I dearly hope you didn't stir him up on purpose.”

They followed the dry and disproportionately large bed of the Ghostwater meandering its way in a landscape of windswept scrubs. The main run underground, and the river was told to choose a different surface path every winter, the only time Oberyn remembered it flowing with waters. Its wayward course was suggested by random patterns of stunted willows, muddy ponds and more verdant patches, and by broad gravel layers, blindingly white in daylight. By the Gardens, though, shy trickles peered out again at the sun, sparse at first, then joined together and grew more confident, and the sudden teal river rushed to the sea in deep and treacherous eddies.

The small group of leading or trailing riders turned out to be a steady round of switching patrols along the whole way, and Ellaria couldn't help wondering. “I never travelled in state. I would think the Usurper's war ended, and Dorne safe by now.”

“Disputed Lands ingrained habit.” He shrugged. “I like to travel with some comfort, when with the children.”

“All the more, when one of them is the heir to Sunspear.” agreed Ellaria.

\--o--

Children were dozing midday heat away, cicadas yelled at their nerve-racking top, the men not on watch duty were loudly dicing and sharing a wineskin not afar, and Oberyn beckoned her with a smirk, squinting at a dusty copse off the river banks where they had set up a shade canopy and made a stop.

Before they reached the ticket, he had already unclasped Ellaria's headscarf, his hasty hands sneaking beneath her dress, roaming her body, wandering on her, pulling her closer, making her stumble.

“Can't you wait any longer?” She tittered, wrested free, and run off, while her veil unwound and for a moment billowed high above her shoulder. The screech of ripped cloth and Ellaria's cry as she tripped on her scarf prompted Oberyn to lunge forward, but they tumbled together on the craggy ground in a tangle of limbs and silks.

“Is everything all right?”

“Unharmed, but for my pride... And my ankle, I fear.” Ellaria's breath hitched, and she winced as he touched it. Oberyn frowned and quickly wrapped it in a torn scrap.

He lifted her up, and they plodded back, before they were near enough to call on for help. Ellaria's throat felt harsh: a sudden gust had stirred up acrid swirls of dust, and stuck to their skin their sweat-soaked clothes.

His eldest daughters, with Sarella hurrying behind, were amongst the first to join them.

“Obara, we set off back, better if a litter from the Gardens meets us halfway: I leave it up to you. Nym, will you be so kind as to fetch Tyene, she knows where my stuff is, and see to the Princess and her friend? and you, ladies Owlet, may soar and fetch Ellaria scarf.”

“What am I supposed to do?” Sarella was not having herself left out.

Keep quiet and still, and stop yammering for a change? Ellaria wondered in her pain writhing mind.

“Let's see if a tale from the Summer Isles can keep Ellaria distracted.” Oberyn put forth with a smile, and turned to her. “I am sure she doesn't know any. Better bind it tightly, before it swells. Would you like resting a bit? Not too much, we should move soon.” He added firmly.

“I am so sorry my clumsiness spoiled your children's jaunty. I shouldn't have worn sandals and a cumbersome scarf.”

“My fault entirely; and to them it looks near a daring feat.” He cut her short briskly. “A stroll with children doesn't usually prompt for riding boots, and you would look good for me. No need to apologize, Ellaria.”

She took it for a warning; she had already marred his day, and she needed not to pester him with her ramblings; he was checking his temper before the children, and Ellaria stayed her tongue. When Oberyn began tending her, she did her best to bravely suffer it, without wailing too much. Tyene, swelling with her supporting role, at his curt nods and unvoiced orders promptly helped him with what he needed.

Ellaria snuck a wary glance at the cup in his hands.

“It will ease the pain. Unsweetened lemonwater to quench your thirst, laced with a dribble of milk of the poppy.”

She was behaving like a whiny chit to his eyes, fussing and turning down her potion. Yet, he was the Red Viper, with everything the name entailed.

“Or is it my ill name?”

He would read her mistrust as an insult. Ellaria took a sip as a sign of her good-will.

“Who can kill, can also heal, isn't it, Tyene? Be a good girl, and drink it all.”

She complied, at ill ease with his readiness in catching her own thoughts without as much as a glance, then studied sadly the tattered cloth brought back by Jeyne and Jennelyn. The scarf was her first man's ritual gift, and she had kept it, even if threadbare in some spots, as a good luck token.

“In a few days from now, traders will ply their finest wares before the Lady Mellario; it would please me if you picked the veil you like best.”

Tyene came forward. “In the meantime, would you care me to mend it?”

“You can have it. It's beyond repair, I fear, and I will be happy if you could turn it into a nice rag doll.”

The child took it with a dimpled smile, scurried back to Arianne, and turned halfway.

“May I have a Myrish lace scarf, father? I'd like to embroider one for Ellaria; hers is ruined, and I'm sick and tired of sewing suns and spears _only_.”

“You have it, sweetling.”

Nymeria's voice carried to them. “House Uller of Hellholt: red flames, over yellow sands. Inverted colours, remember, for she is a Sand like us.” She pointed out. “Last time I had to give mine to auntie Mel.”

“Why are you so fussy, Nym? Arianne and I don't mind wearing each other's dresses, even if the colours are wrong.” Tyene huffed, but nonetheless offered. “I will make you a new one, if you like.” She called out to her father. “May I have another? I am running short of silk threads too.”

“Certainly, Tyene.”

Oberyn lavish pandering ought to be Martell House treasurer's worst nightmare: Myrish lace for a child's samplers was an extravagance unheard of; Nymeria's royal raiment, all cloth-of-silver and sandsilks and precious dies; Obara's steed, with all the slick appearance and prickly temper of any purebred; Sarella was still in the happy age when a glistening pebble is more wondrous than Valyria treasures, but even her exotic fruits had a pricey look to them.

Yet there was much worth of praise too, and Ellaria ventured. “Your daughter feels quite proud of being a Sand. Usually children born out of wedlock grow up quicker, and all too quickly realize they are in a fashion an embarrass to their family.” She broke off, under his piercing stare.

\--o--

Lady Uller had even been kind to Ellaria, as she was to her mother, but Lord Harmen, true to his name, had all of his house flaring temper and thunderous wrath, faulted his wife for an heir's lack, and their rows threatened to shatter Hellholt mudbrick walls and plastered pinnacles. Even if Lord Uller held firmly that only a woman who could ride the wildest steeds would bear a fitting heir to Hellholt, and Ellaria had to overcome her fear of horses before her father, his wife should have known better than engage in hell bent races when pregnant; after another miscarriage, she hissed a woman of the Lyseni _faith_ would know for a certainty how to get rid of an unwanted baby, and maybe of a cumbersome wife too to take up her place, for Lys was home to renowned poisoners as well.

The Dornish were not innocent of venoms either, the desert nearby teemed with scorpions and snakes, and her mother took it for a not so hidden threat, so she packed her things and her daughter for a timely change of air. The men she dwelt with had little use for a little girl like Ellaria, and she took Lord Harmen's offer to take her back. After a while, lady Uller grew resentful of a child who reminded her she was not having any yet, so Ellaria spent the best part of her childhood tossed at her parents' whim back and forth from Hellholt to wherever her mother had decided to live, feeling out of place and unwanted, and when at last they boarded the ship that was to bring them back to the temple in Lys, she swore she would not set foot in Dorne ever again.

After many happy, uneventful and almost boring years, Ellaria received a letter from her father, urging her back for her brother's first nameday; had she liked it in Dorne and decided to settle there, he was even willing to arrange her an advantageous marriage, to make up for his long neglect. Her mother warned her against it, for Harmen Uller was too reckless a man to be depended on, but Ellaria was of an age when it sounded tiresome to be addressed as the exotic daughter to one of the high ranking graces, and feared she would never move on, had she staied in Lys any longer; distance and time had somehow gilded her memories, and in spite of her better self she felt an odd longing for her homeland.

Ellaria proudly claimed she was not going to make her mother's same mistakes, and once in Dorne, she felt more at home than she ever had in Lys, for there her dark complexion would stick out, while here marked her for a native; all the more in Vaith, where she stopped at an inn to rest and hire a guide, for all her father had taught her came soon back, and she would not cross the deep sands ill-prepared.

The innkeep, a woman even more grizzled than the high grace and near as dark as a Summer Islander, soon marked the foreigner in the common room.

“The pot is simmering, but would you like some fried scorpions in the meantime as an appetizer? Only a desert-born can duly appreciate them, and they are at their best now: they are shedding their old shell and the soft new one turns into the yummiest flaky chip.”

Ellaria's eyes twinkled.

“My favourite treat as a child: I used to sneak to the kitchen, and stole them. My father, when he was in a good mood, often had some for me.”

“Then enjoy your delicacy, while you wait for the real thing, not the bland mash they call snake stew in Sunspear!”

“I was born not far away, but I came from Sunspear. How could you tell?”

She let out an heartfelt laughter.

“I would be a poor innkeeper if I couldn't. Of course, you have the looks of a Sand Dornishwoman, yet you comb up your hair in a foreign high bun the Lady Mellario had brought into vogue amongst the capital beauties – her fellow Dornishpeople, Ellaria had learnt, felt no bonds with other kingdoms and it was twice true in their deserts deepest core, where even far away Sunspear was in turn looked up to warily or mistrusted – and you fold your headscarf as they do there.”

Once off her ship, Ellaria had refurbished her wardrobe to look more of a local, keeping little else but the Myrish lace scarf she had been given at her coming of age, yet she had no clue as to the Prince of Dorne's consort favoured hairdo. Her bun was quite common in the Free Cities, and since some Dornish ladies wore it too, she had not bothered to change it in order to better melt in.

“I tried to tie my veil up in the flamboyant style I remembered in desert women, to no use.” Truth be told, she had asked for help even to manage the easier Sunspear fashion.

The Sand Dornish were said to be stingy with words as their deserts with water, and the innkeeper technique was to soak them in gossips, and then wring her customers dry of any juicy information, but even Ellaria knew some trade tricks, and offered her best smile, pointing at the sheer, finely woven shimmering cloth at her side.

“Would you be as kind as to show me?”

“Myrish lace, no less; are you by chance a lady-in-waiting at Sunspear court, back home for Hellholt heir's nameday?” The innkeeper wagged his head. “A pity the baby did not live long enough to see it: Lord Harmen never had luck with children.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but I am only a Sand myself.”

“I am not disappointed; but they are drowning their disappointment at a Sand.” The woman hinted at a gleeful table, where a group of youths were drinking, merrymaking and trading bawdy jokes, and at last gushed out.

“Would you like to join in? Young Perryn got leeway to spent his meagre income revelling in Vaith, before marrying at his grandfather behest. He is none all too happy with it, not only because the girl is Uller's natural daughter. We are already in late Spring and Lord Harmen will need to water his horses at Perryn's grandfather's wells before long, the only ones within miles that would not dry up in Summer. The wells owners have always been glad to grant water to everyone asking, and gladder to exact their due for it, since before Nymeria's coming. Hellholt toll would be an Uller boy or an Uller girl, but Harmen is a forceful man, and short of legit offspring, thus they had to settle for a Sand like you!”

She gazed at a burly, ruddy stubbled and already balding carouser, who was shouting the louder and looked their leader. He had a rough-hewn appeal to him, but her mother was right, and Ellaria had not come back to be bartered with some desert wells, and not even their ownership but a short-term leave to draw water from them.

“So young, but already a keen eye for men, I see. Perryn is not him, but the one by his side.” The innkeeper snorted at a boy, not even growing a beard and younger than Ellaria, sullenly drinking. “A pity they would squander no less than a temple trained Lyseni girl on him, for he has a liking to men only. Would you believe they are fair as Targaryens down there in Lys? Our desert sun will bake the poor thing to a crisp, as it always did with them!”

Ellaria acknowledged that who would not have her, did not deserve her, brought more zest to the revels with her presence, did not give out away her true parentage, blessed her goddess for sparing her the brilliant match her father had set up and dutifully honoured her that very night with the husky red-beard, who luckily didn't share her would-rather-not-be betrothed's views about women. She happily set back before dawn, and excused herself in a polite condolences letter to Lord Uller, but showing up when they were still mourning her baby brother would only pour salt on his ladywife's wounds.

Nor a temple nor a father would provide for her, nor dispose in her stead any longer. She was her own woman now, and she would choose her life and her men from now on.

\--o--

“Ellaria, I will never allow any of them to feel so.”

“It's not for me to say...”

“They are bastards, for you are a Sand yourself?”

“I would not have you to take offence, Oberyn. I presumed too much.”

Her day was born under an ill star; and she kept getting on the Prince's nerves. Ellaria knew by experience there was a deal of a difference between what was allowed her abed, and what outside. Quite often, the most unforgiving in one field was the most lenient in the other, as they were two entirely different men, which made her question as to the true one.

He helped her on his own mount, and Ellaria stifled a pained yelp. The Prince would likely rid of her and forget about her and her unlucky accident, the sooner the better, despite whatever he had said, as she would better try to.

“You never did, Ellaria: it is indeed praise from you, for who could appreciate better?” He bobbed in acknowledgement, and a bright smile rose on his dark countenance. “As to Nym, I gather my lady daughter would sooner consider _me_ a lowborn embarrassment to _hers:_ Volantis old blood, pure enough to look down on Targaryens as upstarts.”

Oberyn wheeled around his horse one-handed, firmly pulling close Ellaria with the other while she leant back onto him, and lulled by the horse's pace, drained by pain and blazing heath, addled by soothing draught, she couldn't help allowing an oozing trickle of drowsiness over her lids, refreshing as cool water stream, and drop by drop, unwittingly, she drifted off to a fitful sleep.


	18. Sea, sand and sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where, in Oberyn's view, pretty much everything goes wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something went wrong when I re-uploaded it... sorry

“Mel, please.”

“Don't call me Mel.”

“My lady, it's not like I am asking you play host to her at the palace.” huffed Oberyn. “Ellaria, with a sprained ankle, can't climb back to my den.”

In his first time of exile he took hold of a rundown turret, in a forlorn and almost wild area, if compared to the well-groomed orchards and clear pools which were the Gardens hallmark. Once it was the dwelling of the maester in their charge and on its premises stood a rickety building, still featuring the facilities of an alchemy lab, which he was soon taken with. The gloomy and lonely place matched his mood, and his refurbishing had touched up its bleakness with an ominous shade. The unplastered walls were bedecked with displays of arms from beyond the Narrow Sea, more fearsomely fancy than effective, to their previous owners' regret, who had lost them, often along with their lives, to Oberyn Martell's unadorned spear. As a mock homage to his moniker, he arrayed a collection of brightly scaled stuffed snakes mounted in threatening poses, but utterly wrong and laughable to trained eyes, for most poisonous ones had rather unassuming looks, and showy colours were more like a mummer's strutting boast than a warrior's cool challenge. Some of them were quite battered, for they were just a stiffer kind of stuffed toys to his little ones, and if Tyene was careful enough, Sarella was still too young to handle them properly.

His children and Arianne loved exploring his scenic abode and its nooks, or playing hide-and-seek when it was too hot to run around outside; yet it numbered more flight of steps than rooms and was ill-suited to Ellaria's present needs.

“Would you settle her in the state apartments, or do you mean for her to share the guests wing with such exalted company as the Warden of the Prince's Pass, and make Lord Franklyn jealous? Unless you have already agreed a threesome, that is. ”

“A clever arrangement, come to think of it.” He hissed coldly.

“The proper place for the likes of her would be in the barracks, entertaining our guards.”

Oberyn spat disdainfully. “I thought your Areo happily married to his axe, and faithful.”

“Neither can she stay here, for all to see!”

“Why not?”

“She is a whore!”

“She is not. Is this a brothel?”

“Short of, had you your way. Call her what you like, an hour or a day, what's the difference?”

“A fortnight.”

“No less... Am I to congrat you on a lasting affair?”

“Are you jealous or what?”

“I understand it is the closest you can get to a long term relationship. For her sake, I hope you not as soon over abed too. ”

“Doran's draggy pace addled you as milk of the poppy. How many years did it take him just to plead for your hand, or to get you with child?”

As soon as he snapped, Oberyn regretted it, since Doran was Mellario's sorest spot, and triggering it would do him no good; for she had no less grievances against his brother than against him, and her onrush flared up.

“The Martell brothers! I married one, and now I am saddled with you both.”

“Are we thick as thieves, for you to lump together each other's wrongs?”

“What for, pray tell, should I set them apart? Neither of you listen to me anyway.”

“At least I am better at feigning I do.”

She switched to what Oberyn called her _wifely_ tone, which, to his growing unease, she was bestowing upon him more and more often. Women were wonderful beings from every outlook, but for this peculiar side he had always happily steered clear of, and it was unfair that she felt entitled to behave _wifely_ to him too just for wedding his brother. Oft-times it would seem not even Mellario could put her finger on which of them she was actually addressing her charges, to him for doing too much or to his brother for doing nothing at all.

Maybe she was right, it had been too long since Doran visited the Gardens; maybe he was right, and it was because of her endless whines his brother's visits were more and more sparse; maybe that's was why Doran was so keen on having him at the Gardens, so that Mellario had a scapegoat to vent her rants on. Oberyn had even wondered if he was somehow expected to take over his brother's marital duty, but decided against it. It would not do to burnt his fingers on the Prince of Dorne's behalf, and his brother could see to his wife for once. How Doran, of all men, had managed to cop such a prize still troubled him: if you stooped and looked at Mellario close enough, the sum her tiny parts added up to an exquisite beauty he had seldom seen in a single woman, so dazzling it could barely fit her diminutive size.

Be it as it may, Oberyn refused to give her ear any longer, let her prate on still for a while, then cut her short.

“Just let Ellaria stay till she can walk again. I will be here to keep her company as often as I can and she will be no trouble to you at all.”

“ _You_ are going to be the problem. I can't have you to pay call on her whenever you please, here in the children's wing!”

“Will Ellaria be sentenced to solitary confinement, poor thing? She will die of boredom, all alone.” Yet, Oberyn had not fully taken in what her displacement could entail. “I swear I won't do anything untoward.”

“As if I could believe you! Trust a harlot before a snake, and a snake before a Dornishman.”

“Even convicts are granted contact visits.”

“I would allow yours only under gaolers' closest watch.”

“Name them, my lady, and I will comply.” He dared her.

“You do, princeling.” She paused. “Any of your daughters will do.”

Oberyn gawked. “Would you have them to... To _chaperon_ me?”

Mellario graced him with her honeyed smile. “Is there anyone I can trust you would not foil, apart from them?”

\--o--

He flicked away a crumble on his chin. “What do you like best? I am not referring to sweet cakes.”

A platter with wintercakes and honey cakes strewn with raisins and sliced almonds was before them, with strongwine to down them for Oberyn and Ellaria, and pomegranate sherbet for Arianne. Tyene was not partaking, because she was embroidering Nym's scarf by the window. She heeded his brother more than Arianne did, a tad more than Oberyn would have liked her to, and took to the letter Doran's favourite saying that children should not see a carpet still on the loom. She would not allow her sister a glimpse of the needlework meant for her, and since Nymeria had already sought out most of her hiding places, she had asked Ellaria to keep it into her room.

Ellaria smiled softly. “It's not about my pleasure.”

“Maybe not, but I am curious.”

“You should try and find out by yourself.”

“No answer could please me more; yet, as of now, I see some difficulty with it.”

Her injured ankle was doing better, and he could have had Ellaria back to his own quarters, but Oberyn was not a man to forsake a hard-fought stronghold beyond enemy lines, no matter how inconvenient, and made little difference between a shameless flight and a honourable withdrawal.

A one-to-one with her was utterly out of question: Oberyn had bargained to see Ellaria in her room only in his own daughters' keeping; there was a silent but no less binding agreement his bedmates should not bee seen about the Gardens during the day, and after dark the children's wing, where she was granted an accommodation, was guarded and locked.

Strictly speaking the shore before the pools was not the Water Gardens themselves, and soft sand would be the best thing for Ellaria's first walks after the accident; but the way leading there was still too long and rough for her. Snatching a litter would not go unnoticed, asking for one would rise the same unpleasant questions, for if he was not breaking it, he was certainly stretching the deal struck with Mellario.

Yet, Oberyn's eyes brightened up. He had a daring idea.

\--o--

He looked quite pleased at it. Nobody would ever notice a missing wheelbarrow at the Gardens, and he had chosen the most aptly shaped and padded it for comfort with some cushions, unwitting courtesy of Tyene's busy needles.

At dawn they made barefoot for the beach, slowly because Ellaria was propping on her cane, and they let sand squish between their toes. She wrapped snuggle in her scarf as a crisp breeze blew her muslin garments close to her shapely form, outlining it to good advantage.

“Nothing but sea, sand and sky... Not even a place, yet I love it here as Doran the pools.”

“You have a taste for beauty, but isn't it too still to your liking?”

“What really drives me is life endless variety, I will give it to you. Yet, nothing fickler than sea.” He smiled. “I learnt how to walk on this same shore, as every Martell Prince or Princess since the dawn of time, or at least since the Water Gardens were built.”

“Your daughters too, I guess? It looks like a good place for children.”

“None of them. Obara in Oldtown muddy backalleys, Tyene on the pale grass of a cloister, Nymeria within marbled halls, Sarella on a ship deck...” Oberyn drew in the briny air and squinted at the far horizon. The rising sun beams glanced off the sea. “None of them enjoyed this unbounded freedom. It feels like you can walk on to the end of the world, and the world has no end.”

They ventured trough the drying shoals. Rippling wavelets lapped at their ankles and withdrawn leaving a foam film in their wake, and in turn gritty sand tickled their heels, but as soon they stepped forward water filled their prints. In the complicit battle between sea and land, Ellaria shrieked at the surf suddenly spritzing them, and Oberyn let out a laugh. They headed back to dry off in the sun, their wet clothes clinging to their legs.

“Sit down; I won't have you to overtire. Don’t load it, Ellaria; lean on me... Good. Ever waggled your feet and toyed with dirt as a child, unbeknownst to your mother?”

“I was a good girl, and always obeyed her.”

“Did you? For your ease of mind sake, you have now a Prince of Dorne’s official leave to misbehave.”

She dug her toes into the silky sand, obediently stretching and flexing her feet.

“Looks nice for other things than first steps... I bet your first time with a girl was here.”

“Face down on the sand... Not a girl; and whom he really lusted for was my sister, not me, but I was too curious. I couldn't tell whether I felt more outraged on her behalf, at her wooer settling for less, or for not being considered only as the second best, not for my own worth, but because I shared her same looks to an extent. Never liked her suitors since, apart from Rhaegar; the Prince of Dragonstone was a prize, though a poisoned one.”

Ellaria kept moving her ankle around, until with an awkward twist she sprayed a dusting of sand on him; he wagged his foot back, shooting her a purposeful spurt; soon they were tangling each others' legs, and their playful scuffle threatened to turn into a different kind of wrestling.

Not that Oberyn had had anything of the kind in mind - not that he hadn't either - but he didn't suffer from Doran's over-planning, and if there was one thing he was good at, it was acting on the spur of the moment.

The surf dull thud was punctuated with cries of seagulls which plunged fora school of fish caught up in low waters. Oberyn managed to rub a handful of sand into her hair, jerked off his shirt and wadded it down where Ellaria's head was likely to land; their breaths were already quickening, when suddenly a childish yell tore apart the balmy morning.

“You were wrong, Obara. I _knew_ it was them!” Hollered Sarella from the scrubby bushes and mellow scented gorses that crowned a range of shoreline dunes, while tugging at her oldest sister's tunic.

“Sands is good to walk on for her ankle, and walking in shallow waters is even better. Early in the morning they are at their broadest.” Put in Tyene, joining them, and quoted. “Sun, sand and sea are wiser healers than any maester.”

“Our lord father escorted her, as only courteous.” Agreed Nymeria, too ladylike to run panting up a ridge and then last on top, but soon forgetting her composure when Obara hustled Sarella who had bragged once too many she was a better scout than her eldest sister, and they slid down the sandy slope in a jumble of capers, leaps and excited screams.

“First!” Nymeria reached the shore and called out, stood up and dusted her dress; but Sarella tumbled on and bounced to his father. “First to get him.”

Tyene lagged behind, teetering between sisterly challenge, and a lost battle to keep unscathed from the downslope race a bunch of herbs and flowers she had picked along the way and soon offered to Ellaria with a mischievous glint.

“Thank you, for our little secret.”

“No trouble at all. How beautiful...”

Oberyn almost jerked the flowers from her, and carefully picked some buds he pinned to her hair.

“Your kid is so sweet, she keeps pampering me.”

“Tyene has her mother's same... Sweetness.”

“Her same skill, too.”

Ellaria caressed the clasp pinning her new scarf. Oberyn had offered her any veil she would like to make up for her old one, but as soon as Tyene showed her needlework, he thought better of it.

“Yet a neat, clean pattern is daring on this gossamer light Myrish lace.” Ellaria praised his daughter, really meaning that not even a little girl could make much of a mess with such a simple device.

“I took the liberty enhance the Uller chevron. I hope you will like it all the same.”

Tyene unfolded it, and pointy chevrons turned into swirling flames, which morphed in the Hellholt lacelike profile of whimsical ochre sandstone pinnacles set against a fiery sky turning to dark purple. Ellaria stated she couldn't possibly find anything more stunning yet delicately wrought, and Oberyn settled for a matching sun-and-spear brooch.

“Still a wonderful scent...” He gave her back the crumpled bouquet after a thorough check. “I guess she quite likes you. You can safely smell, Ellaria.”

“ _Safely_ , Oberyn?”

“We had a nasty accident lately with black dragon leaves, hadn't we, Tyene?”

“I can hardly believe it.” Ellaria looked puzzled. “I had to try my very best to meet her eagerness about Lyseni flora. After going through a shipping from the Summer Isles to the glass house, your youngest ones reckoned your _Greenleaf_ lacking about foreign plants, and set in earnest to amend it with a much needed appendix.”

“Still, its chapters on poisonous plants are as thrilling as thorough.” Oberyn pointed out.

“Even a _child_ should tell black dragon from common fern.” Tyene owned. “The youngest sprouts _are_ trickier, though far from deadly, and if not handled properly can earn you a very irksome rash.” She merrily singsonged and darted away to her sisters, who had already shed their clothes and were calling her for a swim.

“The lad's fault, mostly.” Oberyn answered airily to Ellaria's bewilderment. “I warned him, my daughters are not used to being trifled with and Tyene never took too well to being treated like a silly little child.”

“Black dragon leaves, was it what you meant by messy? Your girl made her point quite clear.”

“Clearer than I ever could. I am grudgingly coming to the conclusion that the best way I have to protect them is to have them take care of themselves.”

Obara waited for Tyene to reach the others and knelt on the sand by his side. “I am sorry, father, but...”

“You shouldn't beg excuses from me at all. How many time did I ask you not to, Obara?”

“As many as you told Nym to stop with her 'lord father'.”

“As neither of you do nonetheless.”

“I just would you to know it was not my fault. Tyene knocked at Ellaria's room to work at her embroidery, Nymeria looked for a book she mislaid in your turret, so my little sisters set to hunt you down... I tried to hold her back, I did my best to mislead her, but Ellaria still limps, and it was _you_ who taught Sarella how to read sand prints!”

“I did.” It was more of a rehearsal, since Sarella already had a good grasp of it thanks to her mother, but Oberyn was peculiar about training such skills as she might have learnt. He would not have it said he was raising a spineless princess, nor give the Summer Islander Captain reason to take their daughter back to her ship and let her off deck once a woman grown. Obara, satisfied with his guilty plea at last, left them alone. “Never seen such a quick learner as my last one.”

“You have been blessed with talented daughters.”

Oberyn almost snorted. Right now, he was quite far from considering it a blessing. His predicament was no short of maddening, and so absurd he found it wryly amusing, but who was having a good laugh now was the Lady Mellario. He who laughs last laugh longest, though, and he would not give in.

Sunlight caught the salt spangled brown shapes of the sisters, splashing gleefully at each other.

“A good place, you said. Yet, children grow up.”

“Are you thinking how you could better provide for their future?” Ellaria couldn't help a slight edge to her words. “Any marriage already in the offing, I take?”

“A good one is the way a father is supposed to provide for his daughters. As if I could: they are not Martells.” Oberyn sneered. “For all the good it did her, my sister enjoyed the best match a noblewoman could ever dream of; not only the heir of the crown, but the perfect prince of a tale, too good for her, they dared put about.” He took a racked breath. “Too good to be true. Even Obara, if I had let her where she was born, could have hoped for better.”

By the end dreams turned into nightmare, with Elia raped and butchered with her children.

“The best thing I can do for them is to give them tools to fend for themselves. It is the only one. So I shall as best as I can.”

Many unsavoury things were told of the Docks, but even the lowest of the low tucked a well honed knife under her pillow: how to hold a one was the first thing Obara had learned from her alleged Lysene friend, and now she was teaching Nym. Most drunkards would sober up at a blade sight; and a thin wooden plank or more often a rag between the cots was a semblance of privacy flimsy enough to allow to call for help and trust to be heard. Not Maegor's thick stone walls as only witness: if they had ears, they had been deaf to her; nor the bloody Kingslayer as only protector.

Worst come to worst, festering vermin, now crawling freely under the Stag, the Lion and the Wolf streamers, would not get away easily with it, and would be lucky to escape with their life to Oldtown City Watch's rough arms to be gelded or sent to the Wall. Elia could not even enjoy the small measure of mercy – be it justice or revenge – a whore was not denied, as she were _nothing_ at all. Forgotten, as she never were, as footprints soon swallowed by the sea.

The tangy air spray turned into the sharp stink of rotting seaweed. Oberyn could no longer endure the place, its emptiness, its quiet. He hurled a blanched slab of driftwood back to the sea and the gulls picking through waste stranded by low tide took to the air cawing.

“You were right; peace does not agree with me. We'd better join them and go gather seashells on the shore.” He stood up and helped Ellaria to her feet. “Do you like clam soup, I dearly hope? Saffron, dragon peppers, garlic and all: otherwise I should reckon our seaside walk as hopelessly wasted.”

“You would never acknowledge defeat, would you?”

“You got me again. I never do.” Oberyn wagged his chin. “Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken. My uncle was wont to say we Martells are thrice stubborn.”

When Ellaria fully recovered, he asked her to stay, and longer than a fortnight, no matter if it would likely cost him the sale of some of his horses, since her time didn't come for cheap. He would not yield, mostly to prove Mellario and the whole world how wrong she was, and he could endure more than she assumed, partly because playing cyvasse, feasting on Dornish wine and wintercakes, reading Valyrian poetry or listening to tales of Ellaria's life, at least the ones not so terribly unfit for children, which only left him craving for more and more heavily spiced, laughing together at his daughters' funny mischiefs, and even plucking again at a long forgotten harp to while away her dull confinement hours, which led him to an increasing appreciation of Ellaria's voice, though pleasant enough entertainments, were not quite the kind of sport he had meant for her, and he harboured a verily wicked intention to make up for time lost.

\--o--

Then Doran got a raven from Mellario, very much along the lines of 'or me, or _him_ ' and the Prince of Dorne himself had to take action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What better farewell to summer, than a day at the beach?


	19. the Prince of Dorne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doran takes action, and sets things aright; or Oberyn proposes - sort of.

“Is anything the matter, my prince?” The uneasy look about Oberyn set her alert. “A trouble shared is a trouble halved.”

He mocked a slap and sit by her side. “I can't really fault Obara for being over protective of me. She meant well; they have grown into the habit of sticking to us, and she would have her little sisters to grant us some personal space.”

“I am grateful for her effort.”

“The girls were not that pliant, so she saw fit to apprise them of the reason why it was needed, and sketched out the main lines of what happens between man and woman. To make a long story short, she ended up passing along, bit by bit, her whole load of knowledge about it. ”

“Was it that wrong?”

“Her account was accurate enough, I promise you, yet not bolstered by the decisive evidence of first hand experience, and all in all the girls scarcely believed her. Obara was distressed; the little ones can be trying, at times. She didn't know what else to do, and I should take the matter in my own hands. I did.”

Oberyn took a deep breath.

“Arianne wondered why all that stuff was supposed to be of interest to her, since a Princess of Dorne rules, and does not earn her living on her back. I put forth the proceedings could be agreeable for the woman too, if her partner paid care to it, but Obara never said as much, and how would I know, since I am only a man?”

“They didn't believe you either.”

“Just so. Wait a few years... _Nothing_ is going to save them from a nosy father, and a nosiest uncle, when they come of age.”

“Maybe, if they talked a woman they trust.. The Lady Mellario, for instance.”

“Auntie Mel? Pray tell who is going to save _me_ from a snake pit, once I have been sliced by Areo's axe, that is. Aegon the Conqueror, back with his dragons? I think not.” A glint of panic flickered in his dark gaze. “Gods... Do you think Arianne bold enough to ask her mother any time soon?”

“You have been doing a terrific job at making them brave, it would seem.”

“As befitting a Princess of Dorne.” He conceded glumly.

Ellaria took pity on him, and came forward. “I could be of help, I dare say.” She toyed with her laces. “But I could never lie to children, less to yours.”

“Nor would I ever allow it.” Oberyn took an end between fore and middle fingers, and pulled at it lackadaisically. “You know by now, there is nothing I wouldn't do for their sake.”

\--o--

“A wheelbarrow, no less! Your brother has given himself to pilfering too, and whom for?”

Mellario was so seething she got winded and had to catch breath, enough for the Prince of Dorne to startle once more at how ire itself was oddly becoming to her: anger bestowed her larger eyes a wild twinkle and her ajar lips quivered, while a flush was creeping over her checks and stray locks, fled from her artful hairdo, stood defiantly in open rebellion.

“Now my nieces look up to her as she were a pattern of womanly virtue; Tyene saw her stretching her ankle and essaying a few steps, and now she is teaching her how to dance.”

“We already went through that with Obara.” Doran cut her short. “I have troubles enough with my brother and I can do without niggling about how he sees right to bring up his children. At least, dance is a ladylike, harmless pursuit, and as long as Tyene enjoys her lessons...”

“That is, Tyene and Arianne. Those two are closer than the Fowler twins! If not for your nieces, you should fret about your own child. Would you have our daughter spend more time with her uncle, and his questionable train of unwholesome pick-ups? It should be you who sets an example to your heir.”

“Mellario, be reasonable: you would not be as upset had I taken a paramour!”

“The problem does not lies with Ellaria Sand. It's him!”

“For once, I happen to agree.” The Prince of Dorne acceded. “Oberyn is a problem.”

“Are you going to speak him at last?”

“To her; I know my brother all to well.” Right now, he would have done anything Mellario would have of him. Yet, he would do it his own way. “If I were to suggest him something, he would do the opposite, out of spite.” Doran bent to whisper. “Could you wait till tomorrow?”

Mellario cradled herself on his wide chest, craned her head up to him with a smile, and let the basking embrace of victory wrap her. A taste rare enough with her husband; for all his brashness, his little brother was more easily won.

“Oberyn and his lovers' batch can, my wintercake. Not me.”

On that much, they could still agree, and Doran closed on her; his breath warm as the sun, and smelling of orange.

“You lied again. You never come to me, first thing when you are back.”

He toyed with her riotous curls, while his hands soothed her shoulders, and Mellario couldn't help tipping her head to sniff the zest heady scent on his fingers, squinting at his meek eyes shining with childish guilt. They would put aside complaints and misgivings for a little while.

\--o--

Ellaria Sand wondered the reason why the Prince of Dorne had sent Hotah for her. Oberyn told him a fearsome warrior, and Doran's trusted man; the only one, for the Prince of Dorne would trust a Norvoshi over his fellow countrymen, he commented wryly, his tone fraught with bitterness. He had given his brother more mistrust reasons than anyone else; but she understood family matters were often sore ones.

She had gleaned the Prince's lady wife was not happy with her stay at the Water Gardens, but if such were the case, he would have rather called for his brother, and ordered him to dismiss her. Oberyn though was nowhere to be found; likely tending his horses, or another affaire, maybe even in his alchemy lab, and she had quickly learned he was not to be disturbed when there, so Ellaria followed the captain meekly and was ushered into the Prince of Dorne's solar.

Ellaria was adept at assessing men on first sight, yet he gave her pause. Doran Nymeros Martell was nothing like his younger brother: not as tall, but broader in the shoulders, with a face so plain it was hardly readable, while Oberyn's one was often stormy and mobile as his fleeting emotion, and strangely at odds with his brother's same piercing eyes, though with none of his restless gaze, and marked instead by weary creases; all in all the mien of one used to watch his acts, his words, and his very mind. A man of thought, and not a man of action, decided Ellaria and deeply curtsied to the Prince of Dorne.

He rose, and pulled her up bodily to stand. “Don’t.” Doran Martell said gruffly. “The Seven forbid you strain that ankle again, or I will never hear the end of it: I can't tell which of the two is going to plague me more if you did.”

He studied her long, without uttering a word. “You are Lord Uller's daughter, I am told.”

The Prince suspected her in privy to, or even embroiled in Oberyn's plots. She was aware of a deep ridge between the brothers, and Oberyn had been almost exiled at the Gardens in the wake of his fruitless attempts to raise Dorne. She was her father's daughter, and the Ullers had been known over centuries to lend eager ears to any rebellion winds.

“I am, my prince, but I have not heard from him in years.”

“How do you like it here, Ellaria? I am told his daughters did not frighten you much.” He asked, not unkindly. “To the point. Would you mind moving to Sunspear Old Palace, to dwell there as paramour to a Prince?”

Ellaria's eyes went wide. Had been Oberyn's records so enthusiastic he was asking for her on word of mouth only, with not as much as a try, or was the Prince of Dorne so busy, he let the screening job to his brother? Would Oberyn not even bother telling her?

She held herself stiffly. “I am honoured, but my agreement stands with Prince Oberyn.”

“Not as mine.” The Prince corrected her. “His.”

Ellaria gaped, dumbstruck. That was beyond surprising.

“I sorely regret you turned me down, though. I will never find out which Martell Prince Mellario would elect to kill first at the news.”

Ellaria eventually recovered her words. “Couldn't he ask himself? He is by no means shy with his tongue.”

“Bear with him, Ellaria. My brother is not the best at decision making.”

“I wouldn't call him indecisive.”

“I name it rashness. He is so very good at following his whims, I grant you this much: but a real decision should span over a moon.”

“Your offer is quite far from the standard course, so to speak.”

“Oberyn never cared for rules: untrodden paths are more to his liking. I am just speeding up the process for him. You are welcome to coax out of him the full fledged declaration you deserve, in case you fancied it. He needs one like you, but by the time he realizes it you will be likely otherwise engaged, and I can see no reason to wait upon his leisure.”

“I can't figure why you care so much about who warms his bed.”

“He can see to his bedwarmers by himself. I need to trust Oberyn, and someone I can trust by his side.”

“What would you have of me, my prince: bend him into submission with my wiles? Spy on him?”

“I need my brother back at my side, Ellaria. I need to trust him, because there is no one else I can trust. I'm pleading as a brother, he needs you, please stay with him. If I only could, I would command it as your Prince, but such things cannot be ordered.”

“How can you venture I am the right one for him? I caused him no end of troubles.”

“An hazard I am willing to take. My brother is disturbingly fond of getting into troubles, I noticed; and I could fare far worse, if I were to let him to his own devices. The two of you fit together; you can hold your own, I dare say, and endure his dark moods...”

“I never had too, my prince.” She put in. “He is too quickly judged.”

“Is he?” The Prince took her hands. “You are ready to plead his cause, or soothe his temper, and on top, you are enough of an Uller as to please the Hellholt, and yet not enough to displease too much my other bannermen.” He waved as to finally settle the matter. “He sold some of his horses for you; usually it is the other way around. He did as much as to steal a wheelbarrow. What more signs should I need?”

“Do you know about the barrow?” Ellaria was nonplussed; she ought to stop being surprised at Doran Martell surprising her.

“I am the Prince of Dorne; knowing about what's of import is my job.”

“Important, my prince? A gardening tool missing for half a day? Will such a childish prank be listed among his blackest deeds?”

“His exploits list is as long as infamous; yet he hasn't done anything of the kind since...” The Prince lost himself in thought, and soon a pensive smile dawned on him. “Once he even managed to flood the Gardens, and I am still wondering whether for the bride or the groom. Hearsay has it in more ways than I care to count.”

“Was not knowing everything your business?”

“An hard one, when Oberyn is involved. You can understand and support him better than I ever would. He can't look back forever.”

“Oberyn will never forget, less forgive.”

“Nor will I; but it's time for him to move on, look forward again, and learn his grief and rage are not the only things.”

\--o--

The sun and spear flying standard blazed abroad, for all to know, his brother was back, and now Oberyn was heading to pay him due homage, as formality demanded – long overdue, truth be told, but he was not so eager to meet with him, and if the Prince of Dorne expected him to scurry at his heels like a good pup and wag his tail cheerfully he was sorely mistaken – when he came across Ellaria, sitting on a fountain edge, who played with its low spurts and was warbling a wistful song. “Let waters flow abundant”

“Like lovers' tears.” He caught her by surprise and draw her up, nuzzling her nape, heedless as usual they were in the children' full sight. “Doran's favourite. Always suspected him quite the romantic, deep down.”

She leant into it, and he unwittingly pulled back; it was not like her to yield and trespass that readily the rules set by himself. Besides, she had no business at all in the pomegranates and lemons orchard right before the palace.

“He has quite an agreeable voice.”

“Better attuned than Mellario's for sure.” Snickered Oberyn. “What are you doing here?”

“Walk with me, Oberyn. The Prince of Dorne gave me leave.” Ellaria linked arms with him. “He told me a funny story involving you, a young couple to be married, and a flood at a Gardens. Is it true?”

“By and large. It took me my best efforts, but at last I wheedled a tryst out of both of them. I also managed to make a botch of the schedule: same hour same place, go figure!”

“A dramatic break up ensued, the very day of the wedding.”

“Far from it. The two love-birds are still enjoying an happy marriage, blessed with many children.”

“Did you flood the gardens so that you had an excuse not to come up? The newly weds met by seeming chance in the appointed spot, never discovered of each others' indiscretions, and lived happily ever after.”

“I did show up, though soaking wet, for I am no coward: I near caught a chill... Can you imagine anyway the awkwardness? A threesome looked like the only available option to smooth out the matter: when everybody knows things work effortlessly, you will agree. Cheating is not always the best course. My brother knows nothing at all; the flood was an entirely different story.”

“Are you in the habit of entertaining three different affairs at a time?”

“Not back then: it was to ward off a lesser lordling's who had taken an unseemly liking to my sister; only the best was good enough for her.” He tipped his head to her. “By the way, what would Doran have of you, apart from tattling about my boyish shenanigans at the Gardens?”

“The Prince would have me to leave them. ”

He turned her by the shoulders. “He has nothing ado with you.”

“He has; you made no mystery the Lady Mellario is not happy of having us here. I never caused any break up in my lovers' marriage before, and I am not starting now with the Prince of Dorne's one.”

“He is not one of them, to my knowledge.”

“All the more reason. I have been asked to stay with you at Sunspear as your paramour.”

“By him?”

“The Prince of Dorne himself.”

“Is it a joke?”

“It is not.”

“My brother has the funniest notions on occasion.”

“We agreed you wouldn't mind an etiquette breach.”

“Does it mean you accepted?”

“I would hear your proposal, before making up my mind. ”

“I should be grateful he left me the fun part.” Oberyn cleared his voice. “Ellaria, if you will suffer me... For good, and no matter what?”

“Nice.”

A thin crease drew between his eyes. “You heard better, that is.”

“I won't deny it.”

“I've never been much of a lovey-dovey, I'm afraid.”

Ellaria sat down on a marble bench, tossed away a stray strand of hair, and knotted her fingers.

“All considered, I could give you a second chance. You can kneel, if you like, but I am not demanding it.”

“That would be way too far.” Oberyn sat astride, and pulled her by the elbow closer to him. He smiled. “From you.”

“My own life is only scattered pages; would you arrange them into a story, and make sense of them?”

He bore his eyes in hers. Odd how words meant half-jokingly once uttered turned out so true. Oberyn was warming at the idea.

“Rhaegar would have made a song of it.”

” Just try.”

“Put your music in my verses

Breath life into words

Give soul to thoughts

Wind to lift my wings-”

Oberyn suddenly broke off with a smirk.

“Is it mawkish enough to your taste, or would you have me to go on?”

Ellaria hushed him and put her lips on his mouth. No matter how good with words he could be, actions would always speak the best for a man like him, and Ellaria shared his own views, for she wriggled free from the kiss to whisper him. “It is.”

\--o--

They looked at each other finally sated; yet in her eyes lingered an unvoiced question. He heaved a breath.

“I spoke, and I trust I convinced them at last.”

“You should have just ordered. You are the Prince of Dorne.”

“Orders never sat well with Oberyn; he would grudge his obedience, and do twice worse next time. I wanted the job done, quickly and with no fuss; I had little need to cater to my personal pride. What matters most is they are leaving for Sunspear.”

“Did you rid of them both?”

“Check your enthusiasm, Mel. I made concessions. I had to allow her as his paramour.”


	20. the Old Palace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Princes of Dorne's private life; and everyone preparing for Arianne's solemn nameday

It was dawning, and she had tossed about uneasily in the bed for some time.

Oberyn turned to her side. “Antsy, aren't we, Ellaria?”

“A tad.”

His lips curled up in a smile. “You remind me of an overstrung thoroughbred before a race.”

“Our first time together officially as unofficial, before all of Dorne; and I would have you proud of me.”

“Did I ever complain?”

“Every eye will be on me: I need to look my very best. Your suggestions are welcome, Oberyn. ”

He considered for a while, pulled aside the sheets and took her in. “Naked, with sex dishevelled hair?” He outreached to cup her breast, but she shoved him away hastily.

“You are not proving yourself helpful, nor are you being funny.” Ellaria strode over to her dresser, and set to brush in earnest.

“I was not joking.” He knotted his hands behind his neck and rolled up his eyes. “Even Mellario seems to have a bad hair day. Didn't I tell you she was loud?”

Voices carried in the Old Palace, and upstairs she was already yelling at her maid: to make up for her scanty height she was wont to comb up her hair in fiddly fashion, and Oberyn had always pinned her fussiness on her daring beehives.

“I was amazed at Prince Doran's fluent Valyrian.”

“Why shouldn't he, with a Norvoshi wife?”

“I meant...” She broke off suddenly, startled at her own words. It was the Prince of Dorne she was nattering about, and to his brother's face.

Oberyn snorted. “Doran is too much of the faithful kind: I would rather expect him to forget the Common Tongue bedsport words.”

“Unlikely, with your room beneath his.”

“Am I to blame for everything?” Oberyn scoffed. He came near to quiet as a snake, which Ellaria misliked.

Once he had shrugged off her misgivings. “An handy acquired habit, when you are mostly involved in irregular situations.”

A bad one, and a good reason to look at more regular relationships, Ellaria mused, spotting on the sheets a tiny trail of crimson splotches, which pointed at her left shoulder; for the prince was used to tone down his utterances biting his lips, hers, and in spells of rousing inspiration digging his teeth in everything at hand. “Was it your bites that earned you the name of Red Viper?”

“You taste too good.” Oberyn shook his head, laughing. “The other way around. Had not been late Lord Yronwood's paramour that earsplitting...”

Mellario's high-pitched voice was still whining from the balcony above.

“Your brother could have had the courtesy not pick one almost as tall as him.”

“A piece of luck Oberyn likes them leggy as foals, or I would have been at ill ease with you and him both at the Gardens.”

“Doran Martell, don't act the jealous husband with me!”

“Love-sick, aren't they?” Oberyn got up, and leant forward at Ellaria's stool. “Not that I am biased toward petites... By the way, since you asked, flat sandals would be a most sensible choice for your ankle.”

“A plain, sensible hairdo as well.” She nodded. “No fanciful buns sitting atop my head.”

He flashed her a conniving grin, and hushed her with his fingers.

“I would think you happy with his choice. How many time did you tell me Oberyn needed a woman to chide him, and you had already enough of arguing with me to take up the chore?” Rung Doran's tuneful drawl from above. “I judge Ellaria Sand up to the task.”

“What is that? Fulsome praise from the Prince of Dorne? I should be jealous.” Oberyn bent again to her ear. “I never enjoyed many words of approval from him.”

“You are unfair; he is your brother and you should know him better. He loves you well.”

“Do you stick up for him, Ellaria? Now, I _am_ jealous!” He heaved a deep sigh. “Woefully, it's too late to change my mind about this.”

A necklace swung on his forefinger; luscious, heavy and ancient, by its dark polish and its uncut glowing stones, maybe from even before the essayed conquest of Dorne.

He clasped it around her shoulders, and stepped back to have a thorough look at her. A huge pigeon blood ruby set in a crown of brownish topazes nestled between her breasts, smaller gems hanged at sides and enhanced her dark throat line, while a fringe of gold chains caressed her back.

“It's true what they say, gems should be better worn on bare skin; yet, I suppose a plain, simple dress would do.”

“Anything too fancy would be in poor taste, with such a jewel.” agreed Ellaria.

Oberyn fitted the matching pendants to her earlobes, ghosted his thumbs at her nape and rested his palms on her shoulders.

“Let alone, a long and trying day awaits us, and we could hardly catch a moment for each other: something simple to unlace, if I might be so bold, would be the wisest course. Which colour will you wear, by the way? We'd better not clash.”

“Won't you sport your merry jumble of orange, yellow and red? I bedded Tyroshi less flashy than you, though not many, I concede.”

“The sun colours; it's not my fault I am a Martell Prince and not a Stark. Besides, I look my very worst in grey.” He splayed his fingers at her back dip. “Would you excuse me while you get primped? With all eyes on you, and me at your side most of the time, should a stray gaze fall on me I'd better groom myself to presentability, and while I am at it I will see to get Obara to look a bit less of a stableboy, if I can wrest her from your father's steeds.”

Ellaria furrowed. “Why on earth would she be acquainted with his horses?”

“A secret I am not going to spill. Not even to you.”

\--o--

The festivities commanded a tourney: Oberyn had not entered the lists for too long, and craved to show his full prowess to Ellaria, who had never seen him joust, as well as to remind of it the rest of Dorne. He resorted to snatching some time from the tight schedule his station entailed, and in the dim light of daybreak he was heading for the training yard when his eldest all but bowled into him.

“Slow down, young lady. Is it the proper way to greet your sire?”

“Sorry father, I am in a hurry. They wait for me at the stables.”

He grabbed her wrist and yanked her to a stop.

“Hold your horses: it's too early even for you. Who awaits you?”

She bit her lips. Oberyn bored his gaze on her, determined to wring out her secret; he would put off his drills.

“Sand steeds. Lord Harmen's.” Obara yielded, and caught breath. “I promised him.”

Oberyn was thrilled, and blatantly doing an awful job at looking a displeased father, for his daughter's tentative smile turned into a glorious beam. Hellholt steeds were held by many inbred with desert winds and sandstorms, and for sure the Ullers were fond of them more than of their own kin.

“How come he entrusted you with his horses?” He was about to forfeit practice altogether. “Skip the first of it: you skulked to the stables as usual.”

“I slipped into the track room to take stock of the guests unseen. Lords and Ladies, all fussing about their best mounts... Such a mess! I tried to make myself useful. By mischance I was handed Maegoran's reins...” Obara faltered.

 _Mischance my ass, if she is my daughter._ Oberyn bid her stiffly. “Go on. Who is Maegoran?”

“The one with a blaze like a spear blade. Lord Uller's courser.” _No less..._ Oberyn had to content himself with sneaking a peek; his famed horses were covetously guarded by the Hellholt's men, Ellaria withheld her help and stated pointedly “I owe nothing to Lord Uller, and would like it to stay so” , and a Prince could not belittle himself to beg, even if he came close to it.

“He asked me how old I was, which Lord I served and the likes; I only helped every now and then, I answered, and he replied he knew a stable boy when he saw one, even without a sun badge, so...”

Oberyn tried his very best to keep a stern face. “You applied for the office and got it.”

“Look! He even gave me coin in advance.” She proudly exhibited a copper evidence. “I shared the rest.”

“You bribed the grooms into silence, that is.”

By rights, an affronted Prince ought to be seething for a duel, and the mishap should have upset him as a father, yet he found nary a disappointment in his daughter earning her way in the world, no matter how humbly, and without his name support.

His fingers closed hers around the coin. “Copper, as my first link at the Citadel.” The first thing truly _his._

Would his brother take such pride in Arianne, when the heir to Dorne would say for all to hear the same words every Martell first born had pledged on her or his seventh nameday?

For sure, Doran could never feel as fully vindicated. The part the Prince of Dorne would play in life was granted him by birthright and his path did not allow for choice nor failure; but he had yearned to prove himself more than a third son of House Martell, and he had dared one day he would win fame in his first name only. Like most boyish dreams, his had turned to ashes, and no one would ever hear of maester Oberyn.

“May I go?”

“Lord Uller's most treasured animals await you; what are you waiting for?” He tousled her hair, and playfully pushed her back. “Not to mention, I am not having Ellaria's father let down.”

Obara dashed away, and he called her out halfway. “Mind not to tell anyone: if your uncle gets whiff of it, he will send Hotah for our hides.”

The secret was unwittingly given away by Harmen Uller. The Prince of Dorne had taken upon himself to make him welcome in Sunspear, for Ellaria had made plain she would rather stay clear of her father, whenever not strictly necessary, and for Doran's peace of mind his brother was better kept safely away from anyone with a prickly temper. The Lord of the Hellholt was not a man for pleasantries, and took no time to broach the matter he had to heart.

“Prince Oberyn was away for too long, and your master of horses turned remiss. A lad with a knack for horses fags there from time to time, for a bowl of thin snake stew by his gangly looks, and no one cared offering a him a true job. ”

“Who would it be?” politely inquired Doran.

“It makes no matter to me: my steeds like him, and I am of a mind to take him into my service. Who knows his way with horses is always welcome at the Hellholt, I don't care if this Barth boy comes from Old Town back alleys and doesn't look a fop.”

Doran Martell winced. _That would be my niece._

“He doesn't wear any livery; I take him free of any obligation to your house.”

The Prince argued briefly with himself whether it was meant it as a slight, or if Oberyn would take it as such, and ventured warily. “I doubt my brother will be happy with that.”

“First come first served.” Harmen Uller pressed on without a flinch; Doran gathered he had no clue of Obara's true parentage and let out a sigh of relief.

“You'd better not breathe a word of it, my lord, unless you are eager for Oberyn's spear: your would-be stableboy is his eldest daughter.”

\--o--

Old words, told anew by a child; past and future shaking hands in his daughter.

He remembered tripping on his tongue, when he had spoken his pledge as the next Prince of Dorne, and the day not joyful as it could have been, Sunspear court still in mourning for Olyvar, but Arianne had a brother, and both were healthy and happy as any child ought to be.

Doran looked at the scrap with his mother's clumsy letters he had been given at seven and still cherished; at his own awkward handwriting before Arianne; at her who had learned the words by heart at his knee and now was copying them for another little Prince or Princess, toiling on her scroll with her chin stubbornly set. She would make a resolute Lady of Dorne; and the Seven knew how much his good people needed a firm hand.

Doran hoisted up his daughter, and added a cushion on her stool, to help her better reach the desk. The child was small: he would remind the master of ceremonies to put another on the Princess's seat, beneath the superbly wrought one Tyene had embroidered as Arianne's nameday gift.

Once even the Old Toad had been a plump black haired little girl, struggling to master her quill with chubby fingers. Doran had since imagined Dorne rulers as a children chain, but in the past years he had feared it would break at his hand, before another link could be added.

Now the day had come, and he would make sure everything could go on without a hitch. Arianne's seventh nameday didn't seem an occasion rife with dangers, yet his brother could be relied upon only to an extent; just not to push his luck, the Prince took care to talk some sense into him beforehand.

“Remember what they say about the Ullers. If Ellaria laughs at your quips, that is not to say Lord Harmen would. You will keep that smart mouth to yourself.”

Harmen Uller having sired Ellaria was credit enough, by Oberyn's reckoning, even if she didn't share his same views, and her relationship with her father was strained at best. Then again, he was painfully aware of his own shortcomings as a parent, all in all had no grudges with him, and when Ellaria sank into a curtsey with a numb “Lord Uller.” nearly pitied him. _Were any of mine to address me as warmly, that's the day I'll take the black._ It would take him all he had to refrain from needling him as one who couldn't tell a stable hand from a Prince's daughter, for all his boasted horsemanship, nonetheless he was coming to acknowledge that Doran knew better diplomacy-wise, and for Ellaria's sake committed himself to stay his tongue.

“Far be it from me to spoil her day in any way.”

 


	21. the Great Hall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arianne's nameday official celebration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Hoy comamos y bevamos](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pvxyzv87stk)

“You ported yourself well.” 

Ellaria flopped down and sprawled on the bed, without caring to keep a graceful poise nor bothering with a tight smile in return. If the day was anything to go by, looking good before him was no pressing concern to Oberyn Martell's paramour. 

In an half hearted attempt to make them behave, he cursed in the Common Tongue, in Valyrian, and in the Summer Isles language the tiny and unyielding buckles of his tooled leather boots and at last tugged them off with a snort. 

Only children had still energy enough to romp about; they were wide awake and the day excitement made them noisier than usual. 

“Scoot over.” He stretched at her side. “I should tell the girls to keep quiet, but putting on a pair of slippers would be too much the effort. Anyway, it's Arianne's nameday, and they can well stay up a bit later.” 

No doubt about it, her prince could add a kick to stuffiest occasions, and she had the nagging feel the ruling Prince of Dorne and his kind entreats had well and truly framed her. The Lady Mellario was right; for all their strives, the Martell brothers made up a fearsome unit; and their daughters, bar sinister or newly invested with the arms and seal of heir to Dorne, had already come a long way following in their footsteps. 

Oberyn raised his head at a knock on the door. “What is it now?” 

“May I?” 

“Come in, Nym.” 

She flourished a parchment showing glyphs in Nymeria's own hand, a wax blotch with the heir to Dorne's sigil, and fastened with silk ribbons that looked suspiciously similar to the ones woven through Arianne's hair. 

“I see your cousin soon put to good use the signet she was bestowed today.” 

She took breath and proclaimed formally. “As master of ceremonies to Princess Arianne Nymeros Martell, I am pleased to invite Oberyn Nymeros Martell, Prince of Dorne, to the heir to Sunspear's nameday feast.” 

_Even the second has a career now and is flying the nest. Time for me to practice a stunned look, while bemoaning 'In my days, that would never happen! '_

Nymeria hopped on the bed. 

“Did you notice how the way from the Threefold Gate to the Old Palace Sept was strewn with petals? Such ingenious patterns! The flowers smell overpowered Sunspear dust reek.” She chirped. “A really grand pageantry, yet Arianne found standing still for so long a bit boring, and the feast not nearly as fun as a nameday at the Pools. Even if our cousin is now the official heir that's no good reason to forgo a proper party, we concurred, so Tyene offered ours room, for hers are smaller, and Obara went to seek out a stableboy, Aaron or Damon or whatever, who plays the fiddle: not very well, I concede Garin is miles better, but we are having real music! You can't miss, we are going to have a greater time than at the Gardens.” 

Booming axe thuds on the ceiling announced the Prince of Dorne, and Mellario's handmaidens rustled downstairs in a whispering gaggle. His entry was forthwith met by a crash, and the distinctive burst of shattering glass. 

On the threshold Nym looked up slightly worried at the gale of cracking noises. “Uncle Doran sounds a wee busy as of now. Do you think he'll manage to come nonetheless? As soon as Lord Yronwood left his solar, I entered and got his word as a Prince of Dorne that he would honour Arianne's party.” 

Doran Martell's day had been taxing as well, and out of exhaustion his usually well-checked tongue had let slip something he shouldn't have. 

\--o--

In the Great Hall beeswax candles had been just lit, and the Prince already felt a bit dizzy, be it the day emotion, the seven flowers intoxicating fragrance: tart orange blossom, heady jasmine, sweet orchid and marigold, pale honeysuckle, pungent geranium and delicate peony, which painted a whimsical carpet on the floor whose scent grew headier as the guests walked on it, crushed the petals and blurred the shapes, or wine flowing by the cask, which he had indulged in more than his usual: Salt Shore sour, the sweet strongwine Mellario favoured, and different vintages of Dornish red. 

Everything was going for the best: Oberyn kept aloof from Lord Uller, as Doran had fervently wished for, and went by greeted by his cronies, some of which the Prince of Dorne would rather fancy in a cell atop Sunspear Tower than in his Great Hall. 

“We are all glad to see you hale again.” A few greying streaks flecked her black hairs, but only enhanced Larra Blackmont's sultry allure and flattered her dark complexion, nor had lessened her bad influence on Oberyn, had he needed any. She locked arms with him and fluttered her long lashes at the polished wood high harp, breathing with husky longing. “You and your voice have been much missed, Prince.” 

Oberyn was not one for playing it coy, swaggered to the musicians platform, and brazenly let loose the notes of _Jewels of Dorne_. Doran's heart plunged: for an eyebat he had naïvely hoped for a harmless albeit shockingly raunchy song, and silently reproached himself, wondering how the ill-begotten notion of bringing his brother back into the fold had seized him, and soon the whole hall roared to the rafters with the refrain 'Fair Dornish sky, cry out your brightest lights; nor night, nor day will ever shine again. ' Even Lord Yronwood, one of the first to join in, to show he was no less of a Dornishman as any other, no matter his grievance about his late father, even Arianne, following with childish zest to make up for her thin voice; and for once, Oberyn was not the only one to blame. Areo Hotah eyed his Prince, waiting his bidding, but Doran as wordlessly waived his pointless censorship on the forbidden lay for the time being. 

He had exiled beyond the narrow sea, under pain of death if they dared come back, the mummers who had staged on their barge plying the Greenblod ' _Of Fallen Stars And Setting Suns, Or The True And Pitiful Story Of Dorne Most Valiant Knights And Finest Ladies_ ', but not before coercing them to play it twice in Sun Tower domed room for him alone, so that the Prince of Dorne could issue an informed judgement. It was not a proper play like the Free Cities ones, but a string of songs, ditties and chanted free verses in the quaint manner of the Orphans, instead of real action a sequence of frames roughly sketched on a rolled canvas and pointed at in turn with a stick, yet it proved distressfully popular. The feats of the White Brothers, Prince Lewyn and the Sword of the Morning, gripped both grizzled veterans and callow boys, starry-eyed maidens pitied beautiful Ashara's doomed love, and anyone with as much as a driplet of flowing Dornish blood, low and high-born alike, was stirred to turmoil over the slights suffered by Elia and the unspeakable, rackingunfairness of her gruesome fate. 

The play had been banned, but songs live a life of their own, and no voice in Dorne was so out of tune as not to howl _Jewels of Dorne_ ; many had taught it to their singing birds, drunkards slurred it in their cups, mothers lulled their babies with it; the cradle song doubled as serenade and dirge, as equally fitting to wooers who waxed poetic over it beneath their sweetheart's balcony, and to wailers who keened it in mourning. Even the Prince himself, when a feverish Arianne, who was of an age when children sponge up everything, asked for a song, and Mellario looked at him, and try as he might, he could not remember anything else, for all other tunes were dead to him. 

The worst had yet to come. Uprisings had been stifled, but their source could not, simmered unseen and demanded an outlet, whipped up anger and fuelled forgotten grievances, coursed through Dorne veins, unseen but deeper felt for that, hid like the Ghostwater but still flowed, and suddenly welled up with dangerous whirls. Not that Ormond Yronwood ever needed be reminded of his house many old scores to settle with the Fowlers, less of the fresh and sorer one with Oberyn. 

“How does it feel like, my Lord of Skyreach, being ditched out of the Viper's pit, for a Lysene slut to boot?” He amiably addressed him. 

The Hawk kept cool enough, as he was wont to, and for that much Doran was grateful; but purposefully airing such kind remarks about Ellaria in Oberyn's earshot, by ill chance the very moment Harmen Uller passed by, was calling for blood. The two of them soon found out they had a lot in common, much more than the Prince would have liked, and, fiery and volatile as they were, turned into best friends within seconds. Before Fowler could muster a pointed retort, they had claimed for their weapons, laid before the Princess as a fealty pledge in a glinting heap with many others, and Ormond's head. The attendance was unevenly split between the Hellholt supporters, the Yronwoods', Oberyn's own following and the better part of Dornish nobles, who sided for themselves only, always at loggerheads with each other, but more itching than usual for whichever fray was to follow. It took Ellaria Sand's pleas, Doran Martell's authority, Franklyn Fowler's remarkable cold blood and Areo Hotah's longaxe to make them see to reason and forestall a bloodshed on the spot. 

They have had enough of emotions and songs for the day to his taste, and his guests could well make do with Oberyn’s performances: the trestle tables were set before tumblers and musicians could entertain them, it was not like anyone needed a spear dance wild excitement to make up for the official banquet dullness. He called off the performers; Arianne did not like it and tried to protest, but she could use a bit of disappointment, for a Princess should remember her vows and learn Dorne comes first even on her nameday. 

The Prince of Dorne welcomed Lord Yronwood at his own and Arianne's board, and saw no reason deny his daughter the company of her beloved cousins, his brother could look daggers at him all he wanted, but it was a seamless way, and the safest one, to make sure Ormond's meat and mead would not be drizzled with anything harmful, dislodged Oberyn and Ellaria with Lord Uller and other bannermen, and tasked her with keeping the two of them at bay, he knew she would rather be in a snake pit than by her father but this was an emergency if he had ever seen one, ordered Hotah and his axe to step in between the foes whenever they drew too close, and considered no short of a success his little Princess's nameday happily ending without anyone seriously injured, poisoned or otherwise permanently maimed. 


	22. by the deceiving Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oberyn as a good-brother; or Martells' marriage scenes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since this chapter is sort of featuring Rhaegar, a harp song sounded fitting.
> 
>  
> 
> [Yo me enamoré de un ayre](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w39ayHhPCKA)  
> 

“Nym wheedled Doran's sworn word, no less: that girl has a knack for diplomacy. The one thing more exacting than being the Prince of Dorne, I believe, is being the father to the heir to Dorne.”

The window screen was cast in deceitful diamonds, stars and arrow heads by a moonlight bright enough to make out Nymeria's writing. The Red Keep of old would have been proud of it, even if a cheesemonger's daughter could turn her nose up at the slightly off wording, and once had kindly offered her help. “I trust in your understanding, my Lord Hand. I can't have Norvos laughing at fortuitous misspellings in my good-sister's nuptials cards.”

Now the Usurper's and his pack of dogs and lions no longer bothered with Valyrian - not that he would obey to either language - as testified by Robert's wedding notice. Doran had closeted himself with Mellario in his solar, and made a point of weaving an elaborate Valyrian answer, whose elegance plunged beyond obscurity, and edged in black. He apologized for not using the Common Tongue, but the King's marriage demanded a more personal reply than his maester's hand. Unluckily he had replied to too many condolences and strained his wrist, while his lady wife's penmanship would have disgraced him before the court, if she had not used her home language. That was how far the Prince of Dorne would go defying an Usurper too thick to get the slight.

“The wish of a Princess of Dorne is more binding to me than all the papers smeared by a crowned stag. With a _real party_ going on nearby and a storm brewing to the tower top we weren't getting much rest anyway.”

“What's wrong with the Prince and his lady wife? He is obviously taken with her, and one would think she could make any man happy.”

“Any, but the Prince of Dorne. That's why Doran chose her.”

“Why would he be so unreasonable, of all men?”

“As to pick the one unfit for him? Trust pensive men who would never commit a foolishness, less because of a woman, to engage in the craziest antics for them.”

The Prince of Dragonstone had not in him to sway from his marriage vows; yet, when he did, he did so spectacularly. Rhaegar had no clue about girls, and to take one to bed could not devise a more streamlined approach than fluttering his purple eyes, tossing about his silvery mane and pouring wildfire on the whole realm.

“Doran could have had the pick of the Hightower girls: exquisite, a large dowry, a most respected house, willing and able to play the part required of a great lady. Yet, my so dutiful brother stood against the grain of our mother and turned down every match.”

“He might be not so dutiful after all. There is more to him than he lets out... ”

“Doran is nothing but dutiful.” Oberyn brushed it aside. “He takes everything too seriously and turns the Prince of Dorne into a drudge faltering under his load. He would not warm to a woman puffed up with her lofty rank or dazzled by his title glitter, and fell utterly, desperately, madly for the first pretty faced girl who had no idea of what Dorne could be, and knew even less about its Princes...”

“Pretty face? She is ravishing like the goddess herself!”

“A pocket one, maybe.” He sneered. “Fact is, I can see no one but you.”

“I can't resist a heartfelt compliment.” Ellaria inched closer, purring. “You almost conned yourself into believing it. ”

“You got me, as always.” Oberyn sniggered. “Coldness is refreshing, my mother would say, and a consort's main virtue is not getting in the way: my father seldom spoke, and was not often seen outside his library.”

“The lady Mellario is not quite the unobtrusive kind.”

“Precisely. Even my peace-besotted brother would rather quarrel than live with the cold politeness a lord can expect at best of a lady wife who would dutifully swallow cheating, moody outbursts and a passel of bastards with a phony smile for a mirrored authority -”

“Oberyn, that's _you_. She married Doran Martell instead and swallowed wintercakes at worst.”

“Doubt not Mellario scolded me quite often for my faults; all the same she got more smiles and flatteries from me during my short stay at the Water Gardens than she ever will from her husband. The Prince of Dorne has other cares, and past years were draining: an Usurper on the Throne, a Kingslayer in the Kingsguard, and Dorne not sitting easily with it as its Prince would like; nor me, for all that it matter. If he ever hoped your charms would trick me to settle down, he was wrong.”

“So was he.” Ellaria chimed in. “You made plain before all Dorne my charms are failing me. ”

Oberyn huffed. “Not that they worked much with Mellario, but I hoped _mine_ would better serve, and spare me your brushing down.”

“No need to waste words to make me jealous. For lack of better options, you would flirt with your mirrored image!”

He skimmed her with a faraway look, blinked, and ripped out. “Bugger him and his cageyness! Always useless as a big brother, I still have to discover everything by myself.”

She stared back puzzled.

“He would not take the hassle to explain me his indulgence over huge Myrish looking glasses, a crafty Norvoshi extravagance to make the most of their dim sun, but totally uncalled for here. He grumbled about easing Mellario's homesickness... I took his word without pressing further: in the Free Cities, a well to do commoner can grow bored of luxuries here a Lannister would find over the top.” He grabbed her hands. “Ellaria, they are not angled to catch light! Fuck: your nameday is too far.”

The crashes had died out, likely for lack of unbroken mirrors, and Doran's mellow voice took over.

“I rather wonder what she saw in him, to cross the Narrow Sea so young for his sake. Unlikely she had no hope of getting a man in Norvos, and she is still out of her depth here in Dorne... What's the thing about vibrant ladies from the Free Cities and Dornish Princes? ”

“With her handsome money and matching looks Mellario must have numbered suitors by the score, still a Westerosi Prince is a difficult item to come by, a prize husband wealth only can't buy.”

“Lust for the kind of power granted by a name, then?” Oberyn arched a sceptical brow.

“Easily fulfilled back home. Even if in the Free Cities a name is an asset, but hardly the only one; it's not unheard of a no one rising to some one. Power is traded among top families often, profitably, by and large peacefully, with a week feast to seal the deal.”

He enjoyed a deeper insight, anyway the Free Cities were too well-mannered to let petty politics troubles last long and impact on trade routes; the small job in Pentos, if not strictly bloodless, had been a neat one, deftly done and quickly over as bid.

Oberyn was grateful for what left unspoken, but let down the small mercy offered. “It goes without saying here the last accession meant a two years bloodbath.”

“Yet a vibrant young lady can sense the hollow beyond a peaceful life cracks. Might be they both yearned for something different from their set path, without even knowing what.” Ellaria brushed soothingly his jaw. “Star crossed lovers dream of running away to the fabled Free Cities and getting rid of their bonds, but the Narrow See can be crossed both ways: the very name Prince has an exotic flair to it, a far away, savage land -”

“Doran? Him? How could she delude herself into mistaking him for a Dothraki khal?”

“I mean no offence, but the Free Cities see the remote Sunset Kingdoms as half wild.”

“None taken. Closer neighbours call us coarser names.”

Mellario's replied to Doran spare words with a scathing Valyrina rendition. “A barbarous custom, unheard of in any civilized country! Alas, how could I expect any better of your sands, crawling with vipers and venomous scorpions?”

\--o--

That was Elia's mission: for Elia had married for duty, but not the duty of a daughter; Elia had married for love, but not the love of a man.

She had grown up close to Ashara and her knees did not go weak at the Daynes' colouring, nor the Dornish let leak pointlessly their precious water, not even their eyes' one over a maudlin song; all the less Elia, who had no use for idly tears. A sickly girl's life was already sad and she knew better than waste it moping: she was often forbidden to dance, or even to leave her room, but clapped at cheerful tunes and noisy songs and jokes, the bawdier the better; Elia loved life, children and stories, and would laugh away her worries, and prod him at his smug smile. “You are a bad influence on me, little brother.”

Soon Oberyn was spinning her around. “I'd better be. Can't have you too wise for your own good: another sibling of Doran's sober cast could reflect badly on me.”

Nor she had accepted a loveless marriage for her future title lustre, nor the much exalted dragon blood. Martells could not boast of forbears from the smoke of a legend, nor the fires of Valyria, and a childhood at the Gardens had disabused them of many fancies about blood Westeros nobility held firm: Oberyn could see why Doran shared to an extent Mellario's more enlightened views on the matter and would not have at his side a woman who gauged her true worth on a crest antiquity.

\--o--

“As a Kingsguard, I know him thoroughly, and I stood for my niece's marriage on sound reasons. Earnestly, I can see no flaw in him.”

“Spare me Arthur's tale, who would paint him as Baelor the Blessed and Aemon the Dragonknight in turn. He is exceedingly decorative, I own you that.” Oberyn blurted out. “Does the man know how to laugh?”

Insanity coursed through the Targaryens' blood, and he couldn't help sniffing something off in Rhaegar too.

“It is the Prince of Dragonstone you are speaking of.”

“My good brother as well. It's all about Elia's happiness: if I were to marry -”

Lewyn snorted “I'd pity her.”

“I'd sooner spend my life by someone I can share a good laughter with, even if not as flattering to the eye. I am not quite the contemplative.”

“Don't fault him. You wouldn't laugh much, were you in his plight.”

“What's it: crooked teeth?”

Oberyn cornered his uncle and what he wormed out about the royal couple got him straightaway to his sister's chambers.

“It was me who tossed you on his bed, if you care to remember. I feel responsible for you.”

“I haven't forgotten, Oberyn, and I take Rhaegar has neither: whispering to my ear, loud enough for him to hear 'I quite envy you, as of now', and tilting your head to better square an assessing glare at his nether parts.”

“It was supposed to be leery.” Oberyn gave a shrug. “You will concede purple matches nicely his eyes; Ashara would never let silver hair cow her, but I found your retinue of fellow Dornish ladies unspeakably lax with their duties.”

“I think not. The only piece of cloth to be found on him was a black velvet strip tying back his hair.”

“How considerate: ribbons do have many interesting uses abed. You were not allowed as much. ”

“A brother is supposed to defend his sister from crudest japes, which you didn't, not to harass her husband. ”

Oberyn waved off her reproach. “Northron japes? Hardly worth a reply. I maintain attack the best defence, and your uptight dragon needed badly to be put to his place.”

“ _Shocked_ was the proper word, dearest brother.”

“Don't whine about yours, at least bride and groom ended up in the same bed, which was not always the case in beddings I attended to.”

Oberyn desultorily remarked. “I have seen you brighter: the Red Keep climate does not agree with you.” He lowered his voice, suddenly serious. “Unhealthy to newly wed Princes too, I fear: does he mistreat you, in any way?” Elia glowered, but he went blithely on. “I will rescue you back from King's Landing forbidding weather.”

She eased her hands of his brotherly grip.

“No need to sprinkle his salad with Lysene seasoning on my behalf. You are unfair to him: Rhaegar would never hurt me, he couldn't mistreat a nag nor a cur...”

“How great! Is my sister considered on a par with a shaggy dog?”

“He is very fond of his pets, even the shabbiest.” Elia just smiled. “He promised me a song.”

“Is your thoughtful husband planning ahead your mourning service?” Oberyn made the Rhoynar vulgar gesture to ward off the evil eye. “I can't figure a more fitting occasion for his lamentations.”

Elia was right, Rhaegar would do nothing against her; yet he did nothing, and neglect was just mistreatment blind and craven disguise. The Prince of Dragonstone dabbled too much in prophecies to see the boons of real life, and forfeited such trivialities as family, wife and children.

He pressed on. “Just answer: are you happy with him?”

“Happy and Rhaegar Targaryen will never rhyme well together; but I am contented. With Ashara as my companion I will laugh a bit more and have a reason less to miss Dorne.”

“You shouldn't have wed such a depressing fellow nor leave Dorne to begin with. Had I been in Sunspear, mother would have never convinced you: if you fancied purple eyes with matching silver hair, you could have had Daynes aplenty.”

“I had no option but the Prince of Dragonstone or the Silent Sisters after you scared all my suitors away. Your _'Hymn to Dawn'_ gotthe poor boy fleeing to take the White.”

“Can't understand why, I sung high praise of the sword of the _morning_ _glory_... Too bad the tune? I'd better ask for my good brother's help.” Oberyn crooned his aubade in Rhaegar's style.

“Stop it!” Elia failed to stifle her guffaws and tears welled up in her eyes. “Arthur holds watch without and will hear you. Would you have him to break his Kingsguard's oath, or forget you are of the royal blood now?”

Yet, Oberyn was content enough. In time he even befriended Rhaegar, at first on no sounder ground than his sister growing fond of him, for he would not let himself cut out from her life. His scholarly studies raised true interest, instead of a brow at another of Oberyn Martell's quirks; for all the Prince's gloom, it was a refreshing change to meet with a man of his own age and rank, who knew his way between the lists, but had more brain than his horse, and whose interests spanned beyond dogs, steeds and his breastplate rubies. Too much of Baelor the Blessed to his liking, but his sister could have done far worse. Rhaegar was not a brute and less of a lackwit - _far from his father_ \- with time and children, he could hope they to bond and fit together, what would pass for true love and a thoroughly happy marriage. Had only Rhaegar outgrown his damnably Targaryen dramatic penchant for tragedy: Elia and the Seven Kingdoms could have passed quietly over a few princely discreet indiscretions.

“Green with envy, Oberyn? You wouldn't rail at fate were such a one to stumble upon your bed.”

“Who would be that foolish? Your man is sought after to the point of annoyance.” Yawned Oberyn. “Old and new acquaintances beg for first-hand take on him, question closely about his eyes _exact_ shade, would rather have a strand of his hair spun silver and make little of the coined one of another prince ready at hand. Should take him to an extensive tour of the Street of Silk and the Flea Bottom, just to be done with it.”

“Don’t you dare. ”

“He isn’t such a bore at the end of the day, is he?” Oberyn squinted wickedly. “Yet, if he can't find in himself to make you laugh, and has no sense enough to acknowledge how wonderful you are, the loss is all his, and your prince is a fool. ”

“It was my own choice, and I'll stand by it.” Elia told him everything.

\--o--

“You will bear him children, but it does not make of you his brood mare. Not even in the rest of Westeros women are helpless; no one could get closer to the Rhaegar than you as his wife. You are a princess and things are requested of you: you will be the best envoy Dorne can hope for.”

“I am no great beauty, mother. Little chance I will enthral him.”

The Lady of Dorne raised an impatient hand. “That's for the best, Elia. Passion burns dangerously, more so in a dragon. You could find pleasure in each other, but you are not supposed to seduce him, nor are you tasked with entertaining Rhaegar Thargaryen abed. Win his trust and his friendship.”

“Arthur already holds them firmly.”

“If he plays his cards right Dayne will be at best his Lord Commander. You will be his Queen; it's up to you to win over the whole kingdom. If the two of you work together, with your uncle's guidance...”

“You will have the upper hand over Tywin Lannister.”

Neither it was to obey her mother she acceded to the wedding with the Prince of Dragonstone, and heir to the Iron Throne. Even an ailing Princess could now achieve something for her people: show that Dorne was not the snake pit most believed it to be, and could issue not only fearsome warriors but wise ladies and fitting queens.

She easily won Rhaegar's affection; the melancholic lonely Prince had longed for a sister most of his life and never known what a true family was like, the almost fond indifference between the Lady of Dorne and her consort paling to the sheer loathing of Rhaella and Aerys, who never met eyes, never traded words, and actively avoided each other. Yet Elia was not allowed life enough to disprove the Seven Kingdoms jaundiced notions about Dorne, and her death only confirmed the Free Cities Westeros was indeed a barbarous land. Lewyn Martell lead the Dornish spears to butchery, Arthur Dayne warded his master's mistress and was hacked down by Lord Stark, too late to rescue his sister; nor Ashara could live with a brother killed by her babe's father.

Why would Rhaegar deploy half the Kingsguard, the best to boot, the Lord Commander and the Sword of the Morning, to keep Lyanna Stark: keep a scrawny girl from taking flight, instead of releasing her and stopping the war, or keep her safe, when he had not bothered with anyone to protect his wife and his children? The one Kingsguard left with them was not to be counted upon: Arthur's wonder pupil was damn good with a tourney sword, but too much of a Lannister, and the Daynes siblings proved once more sorry judges of characters in their affections, but at least they managed to die in Dorne, Arthur even with a sword in his hands. Just what a Kingsguard lived for, especially when there was nothing left of what could make life worth living.

Ice and Dawn; no doubt, a song-worthy duel. Yet the young Stark, who had never joined a tourney before, did not show off his skill in one after nor speak about it later- not that being a Lord had ever kept his friend Robert from a mêlée and less from loud boasts - retired to rule a Kingdom which he was not born heir to, with a wife who had never been his betrothed, a motherless child, and no one to take revenge on.

Oberyn could understand why, even if Eddard Stark could berate himself only for delaying to relieve of a burdensome yearly siege the Lord of Highgarden, who sat on his fat ass waiting for someone to which he could yield. Mace Tyrell's strategic mind could not dare out a brilliant and unprecedented surrender to the starved bunch of Storm's End survivors.

_Elia's endeavour was just another delusion; her dashed hopes, her efforts turned to nothing._

_\--_ o _\--_

“Life is not nice to girls who made true of their dreams and married a prince.” Oberyn considered wryly; Mellario was sobbing, and Doran struggled for words to soothe her. “If she expected a horselord, she was in for a reality check: Mellario came to Dorne on the fast wings of a trade agreement, whose terms took some years to talk over, which admittedly, as far as my brother goes, would read as rash. ”

“Said Prince being soft spoken, not boisterous at all, and even less barbaric, only adds to his charms.”

“Women are such wonderful contradictions...”

“Almost as Dorne Princes.”

“I am the Prince of Dorne.” echoed Doran finally. “I can't let this debt unpaid. "

“Can you? for the ruling Prince is the one in the habit of bonking random people he has no business with. Your brother lacks no children: are we richer than the Lannisters, to pay debts not even ours?”

“Sands' blood is worthless coin.”

“Does he care for them less than I do for mine own? For you blatantly don't! Is it my fault I birthed you Princes and not bastards? Yet you rip apart mother and child as ruthlessly. Do you despise me as the lowest of the low, to treat your wife like a wanton slattern, unfit to raise your son?”

They lapsed into silence and Ellaria snuggled flush to him.

“They would be happier together, if he were not the Prince but a second son.”

“Did you ever dream of being different from what lazy people like to believe?”

“Would you have Doran not so at ease with being the ruling Prince? More is the pity, for he _is_ : deep down, and to the core, and more than everything else.”

_Does she still entertain any delusion about princes? I dearly hope not._

“What did drive you to me, man could ask? A paramour is not a granted any authority.”

“Which neither a third son has, but we could be clever and earn some. Fishing for praise, princeling?”

“Did not they teach you how to properly fawn in Lys?”

“I also know when _not_ to: you would get bored in less than a moon turn.”

“Wouldn't you? Still, my question stands.”

“Though far from a tale Prince, to a Sand even the youngest brother of the ruefully already committed Prince of Dorne is a prize.”

He narrowed his eyes, ever so slightly, and Ellaria supplied. “And, of course, that trademark frown of yours.”

His brows shot together. “Which one?”

“The one meaning: I will take up the challenge, turn up the tables, and so the Seven help me. It's so utterlyyou.” She tittered. “Most would say 'you presume, woman. ' You would rather set yourself to make me happy, whatever it takes, and then some. I like that in a man; but on the whole, I think I'll let you guess.”

Oberyn tipped back his head and laughed. “You know me too well. I might come to love you, over time. And it's time we go: it's not for a powerless third son to flout a summon from the heir to Dorne, newly invested in her capacity. Besides, they are ones to wreak havoc, I can't have the girls and Arianne throwing a party with no grown-ups in attendance.”

“Her parents are not going to show up any time soon.” Concurred Ellaria and pushed herself up. The stormy winds from above had abated, but not come to a lull, and even without the comfort of mirrors they were engaging in other exertions. “I wouldn't overly worry: how could they do worse before a small party of friends than you did today, before all Dorne?”

\--o--

The Princess's private nameday feast made Sunspear history, according to everyone attending. Ellaria brought herself to teach the girls some new dance steps, Oberyn goaded them into setting up a masque but she prevailed Dorne history was just fine, if dating back a century at least, and Obara and Nym were squabbling on whether to stage the Scorpions Love Dance or Ten Thousand Ships when the Prince of Dorne and his consort made their solemn entry, still in their ceremonial attire, even if Mellario had wound up a simple scarf around her spilling curls.

Ellaria turned to him and whispered. “You were right, Oberyn.”

“Of course I was.” Oberyn was tickling Sarella, whose bedtime hour had long passed, dozing in his lap yet bravely pretending she was not asleep. “As to what?”

“The Lady Mellario looks glorious in her afterglow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the overlong chapter, and my lagging updates - I have a very time-filling job, and this one was a monster to write. This one and the previous two were actually meant as one, I cut it into three parts to manage it better and every scrap grew into a complete individual, like a seastar! As to the last one, the more I try to trim it down, the more it swells of its own volition. I gave up and there you are.


	23. Broken Mirrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Oberyn and Ellaria skirt disaster.

“Are you happy here, Ellaria?”

The sudden question startled her. She stopped her bedtime grooming, and turned to him with a smile

“Though not the Prince, a Prince of Dorne still; not beautiful, yet the desire of many women, and many men too. You are pleasant enough company not only abed, and you are even concerned about my happiness. Could I ask for more?”

Ellaria patted her hairbrush on the seat beckoning him to her. He did not comply and held himself stiffly.

“Of course I am: are you, Oberyn?”

He took the brush from her hands, ran his fingertips bemusedly on the worn smooth scales of two brass snakes that intertwined on its handle and drew mind-tangling coils on its back then set it aside by the matching mirror.

“A raven from Oldtown; an old friend from the Citadel I haven't heard from for long. I asked about Obara's mother.” He dipped his head to her and held her hands tight for a while. “She passed away a while ago.”

“Was she someone special to you?”

“Not really, nor I was to her.” His tight smile did not crease his eyes. “One among many.”

Nor his graceful Nymeria's mother had been much else, and as easily slipped from his mind. With Tyene's had been a bout of boredom along one of madness, spurred by his taste for challenge, but Lynette was one of a kind and would not let herself be forgotten. Sarella's little more than a diversion to a wearisome journey; not enough to bother himself with the trader-captain's name true pronunciation.

Back then the Martell sun shone at its highest; he would never stop and look back, dazzled by its glory, and life smiled as an everlasting present to the one quick enough to seize it.

Back then, he would spite the whole world and paid heed to no one. He had been a man of no regret, back then, a swagger to his steps, and let consequences take care of themselves.  _Back then_ .... The very words were unknown to him, mocked as fitting to losers:  _now_ only mattered. Now present was a ravaged battlefield with no middle ground to stand on between past and future, and none given.

“She couldn't tell who the father was; nonetheless she called her after me.”

“She hoped for it; a reminder she really lay with a Prince.”

“A delusion she could no longer hold to.” He shrugged it off. “I ripped her of that too.”

“You did what you thought best for your daughter.”

“Did I? I wanted so badly to be chosen over her mother, I backhanded the woman and scared Obara into following me. Now I had to tell my daughter she is gone.”

“How did she take to i ?”

“Badly. She shed no tears.”

“When are you leaving for Oldtown?”

“What for?” Oberyn cut her off harshly. “Obara hates it there.”

“It's still where her mother rests.”

His cold stare silenced her.

_Most like, her mother wound up laid in state on an anatomy desk. A fitting end, for a disposable body in the Citadel service; and since the gods were merciful, Obara would know._

_An anatomy desk, or worse. Maybe, the gods were merciful indeed, and his questions could not haunt Obara's nightmares._

There had been always a steady flow of whispers about them who chafed at the rules of a Citadel too timid in the pursue of knowledge. Oberyn himself had grown very close to such: enough to rejoice at the news of Marwyn archmaester and enough to figure out why Qyburn had been stripped of his chain.

Ellaria held his gaze and Oberyn sagged unbidden by her side.

“Quite the talk. Obara asked me if she was a mistake. I made so many! Daughters are more like undeserved blessings: I learned from them much more than I could ever give back... Wasn't it supposed to work the other way around? Even when they make you feel like a failure. Might even be because of that. ” He smirked.

“You will never do anything by the book, Oberyn, and you are not a failure...”

“Mistakes are not a problem, they are just what you make of them; yet, giving a daughter reasons to ask whether she was one, that's not some slip, that's failing her abysmally.” He replied heatedly, then his hardened voice hushed to a rasp. “Everyone has the right to his own mistakes and should be allowed to learn from them, but I'd rather have Obara not making mine: I already got her feeling like one, and don't need her to feel a failure too.”

“In your own way, but you are a good father, Oberyn. At the time you were little more than a child yourself, and now you are trying your best to do good by them. ”

“Not that I am succeeding: Obara never enjoyed much of a childhood to begin with, and likely she would rather be at the Hellholt as a stableboy to your father than in Sunspear as daughter to a Prince.”

“You'd better not reminded me of _him_.”

“Pray tell why I should expect my daughters to look up to me as a father, when you are at daggers with yours?”

No one of them could recall later how the disaster happened, nor what triggered it, nor which fault it was; only they aimed wildly and blindly for each other raw core, in a knot of past ghosts and fresh misgivings, old wounds, new fears and personal failures.

\--o--

Ellaria began sobbing quietly, and Oberyn flung a pointless slipper to the door Areo had shut, angry with himself and even more nettled by his own petty gesture.

Their bandied words hung heavy as a pall.

“None of mine should lead my own life.” Ellaria had snapped. “Nor shall I allow someone who keep on begetting children by mistake leave me with delusions only.”

“They are not a whore's unwanted get like you are!” He had lashed out.

After that there was no coming back, not even had he been good at begging excuses, which he was not, less when the best he could offer was just that he felt like picking up a fight.

If he could no longer live with himself, if he felt a compelling urge to blot out any chance for happiness he had no right to bring it down on other people – people he cared for, as Ellaria had slowly crept under his skin.

She stated among her tears she would leave by the morrow, and Oberyn had to agree she was free to go whenever she liked, while he tried to calm her down and make her see to reason. Not that he really meant it, at first, but he could be very persuasive, and to persuade someone, you need to put in from time to time something you can believe in, and by the end Oberyn had managed to convince himself he wanted all she did.

Yet, Ellaria did not yield, and even weeping she was dazzling, and wore her tears like a Queen bedecked in pearls and cloth of gold her crown, and her tears flowed like unhoped-for rain drops in a desert, when dust revives in a sudden bloom of enamel and gems, and he could not find in himself to let her take her leave with such a bitter recollection of him. Soothing strokes melted into wet kisses, and they ended up making love wordlessly and parching for each other, as that were their last night, for it was, and after Oberyn wondered how he could bring himself to let go of her came morning, nor could he deny her wish to go, and he wished for dawn never to come.

He lay still long, for words could only make the matter sorer, breathing her same air the last time till slumber won him over, yet dawn came, unfurling the veils of a rosy day and parting lovers with the same gleeful ruthlessness, and Ellaria, who had slept as uneasily, woke him.

“Oberyn...”

“Hmm?”

“What if we try, but I don't get with your child?”

“Keep on? I quite enjoy just trying, you know.”

“Would you be much disappointed?”

He considered. “Some, but I think I could live with it.”

“I would: terribly so. We deserve no less, after yesterday.”

“I cannot have you disappointed, and I would do just about anything to earn your forgiveness, even let you borrow one of mine. After all, it's not like I am childless; and if you asked nicely... No more than a couple of day at a time, agreed?”

Still, Ellaria did not consider the matter settled.

“How many would you have?”

“Children? Some.” It was sweet to humour her; and teasing her sweeter still.

“Some is not a number.”

“It is not for a wise man to count his happiness.” He nuzzled her, but she pulled back from too easy a victory.

“As to wisdom, parting would be the safest course.” Ellaria replied sadly. “A child should never feel a mistake, nor a burden, less a chain.”

“A child should just feel at home.” He agreed. “I have never been wise, though, so we'd better be home to each other, and not for anyone else's sake. Choosing each other day by day: would you share the risk, Ellaria?”

“You are too good with words by half: wish I could trust you. I will grow old and you will tire of me.”

“How unfair: we ought to be able to survive each other. If you grow old, then I'll take care of you. Did I not take good care of your ankle?”

“You were just acting on a whim.”

“I am happy I did: believe me or not, my best inspiration often comes out of whims.” He locked fingers with her. “My sister would have liked to, but was not lucky enough to grow old together with her children's father. Not because she was sickly, not because he had taken a fancy to another woman.” He had been the one to live what Elia couldn't, and over time her desires had turned his, for it was true even the other way around, and now living at the fullest felt just living by half. “Whatever future will bring us, I will not shun sharing it. I shall be true to you.”

Ellaria snuggled to him and dozed off, yet he could not turn back to sleep, and stared at the golden swaths seeping through the fretted windows and trailing their path on the wall, till in his turn he elbowed her awake.

“It's not really cheating, if you know of each other or we share, is it?”

Ellaria scrunched her eyes open and shaded them from daylight, while yawning at his neck crook. “How nice while it lasted. Can't you even _think_ of keeping true for little more than a blink, or at least have the grace to let me dream of it a little longer?”

“You wrong me.” He avowed with a peck. “I was thinking how I could _really_ be. Wouldn't it be cheating making promises I know I will never keep?”

“No matter how unlikely you are to keep them, I would appreciate your offer even if I could not fully believe it. Do you think so highly of yourself you presume to get away with anything?”

“I try my best, but I am aware there is still room for improvement. Anyway I'd rather have you to trust me. I mean it. I don't spend my word lightly, with people I care for.”

“Do you really care for me, as you would a true born bride?” wondered Ellaria, an edge still to her voice. “You should better get yourself one, and have her bear your children.”

“A highborn wife? No more than an expensive piece of furniture.”

“What of a paramour: _bedroom_ furniture?”

Oberyn sniggered “Speaking of which, a ship from Myr is due in a few days, to deliver two complete sets of large looking glasses.”

“Speaking of extravagant furniture, weren't you dealing for some of the Hellholt foals? Don't think you could have them for less just because of me.”

“If this goes well, I could even afford way more than some. The Myrish glasses came for a song: I began haggling for them, and ended up with a business share instead. I suggested how to increase the trade with a promising market niche nobody thought of before; I also set up a winning strategy. Can you recall the relieves on the portal overlooking your temple inner garden in Lys?”

“What for? We went through all the positions twice already, I believe.”

“I handed the Myrman some sketches: its frieze will nicely do for the frames, and goldenwood grain is almost flesh-like... The Cinnamon Wind will soon ship another batch, she jumped on the bargain as well. A tad brash, but we need to boldly convey the idea if we are to open a breach into the market.”

“Sure they will they will make quite a statement.”

“For us, I'd better contrive something more to your taste: less trite and subtler.” Mused Oberyn. “Plain polished wood, crowned on the top by two affronted ivory figures, like the ones on your comb, holding a brass bronze Martell sun... Would it suit you?”

She approved. “Simple yet classy, with something heraldic about it.”

“I have a mind to change my crest for your sake.”

“You could do without: your talents are wasted as a prince, Oberyn. You’d better join a trade guild in the Free Cities.” Ellaria laughed. “Strategy to breach into the market, though... Doesn't it ring a bit too warlike?”

“Trade is not that different, I was given to understand by the Myrman. Besides, take my word as a free company man, wars are fought with gold and letters as much as with steel.”

“What about the second set, the tacky one: anyone I should be jealous of?”

“You have no reason to: Doran will get it. Mellario is not like to come round easily this time and my brother will need all the help he can get to mend up things with her.” Oberyn shook his head. “Why couldn't he just do like everyone else in his position would, some highborn lady or another to wed and a paramour to bed?”

“Don't you try to fool me. Mistakes tell a great deal about people, and you think all the more of your brother for his unsound choice.”

“You see for yourself your jealousy is unwarranted for: I could even try to keep to you only, just for a change.” He smiled back at her wickedly. “Yet I cannot help considering such extravagant wide mirrors would be wasted on merely two people...”

\--o--

A mild breeze stirred from the sea, and Oberyn and Ellaria hurried up to the rooftop garden hoping in something left to break their fast. Luckily it was late enough for an early lunch, and when they stepped in, hand in hand and a bit bleary from oversleeping, they could join the Prince of Dorne who was enjoying a light meal.

At last Doran held out his emptied glass and inquired kindly. “Are you with child, Ellaria?”

She gulped down a morsel of the last goat cheese wedge she had helped herself snatching it from Oberyn's grab. There had been no contest for the fried scorpions: he was fine with the matching heavily spiced dip, heartily spread on his flat bread, but, to Ellaria' amazement, even after his time in Sandstone he still considered the goody an acquired taste he had no intention whatsoever of acquiring. Oberyn had anyway retaliated by spooning clean the bowl of cumin seasoned chickpea paste she favoured, licking his fingers to the last glob.

“Not yet.” She replied politely, somehow flattered but slightly baffled.

Oberyn came promptly to rescue her. “We are trying in earnest.”

“When did you start to, if I may?” The Prince asked non-committally.

They looked at each other, uncertain about the answer.

“Can't have been much earlier than this morning.”

Doran tapped on the table. “If so, may I take you are not planning to split any time soon?”

“Why should we?” Oberyn stiffened defensively. “As if it were any of your business.”

“It was a close thing, but no.” Ellaria owned.

Oberyn curled his arm around her waist and squinted defiantly at Doran. “I much liked how Ellaria stood for our child.”

“Wonderful. Could you please explain me why you had such an epic quarrel yesterday night over the custody of a baby not even under way I had to send you Areo to get some peace?” Doran gushed out at last, determined to take the matter in his own hands.

Ellaria and Oberyn traded a guilty and unrepentant glance, then looked at him again with feigned innocence, like pupils scolded by their maester.

“Oberyn, you are a bad influence yourself already; you don't need mine and Mellario's.” Doran chided and his anger for his reckless brother, hell-bent to throw away whatever was good for him as he were afraid of it, abated of a sudden. There had been no raven from her in months, while the Prince of Dorne had climbed up to the rookery countless times, stopped before rapping at the door, and tucked back his letter.

“Go to her and stay. There is nothing here I cannot take care of in your stead for a while.”

The Prince of Dorne took in his brother, piercing him with a doubtful stare.

“Or nothing so pressing it won't keep.” Oberyn huffed.

“Should I trust Dorne in the keeping of your good faith?”

“Don't you even think about bringing your papers to the Gardens.”

“Why are you trying to dispatch me? Upheavals in the wings, or just your need to feel free to cross spears to your heart's content over my unborn nephew's or niece's prospects, or about your grandchildren upbringing, without me and Areo getting in the way?”

“It would seem I owe you some mirrors; after all, it was because of me they were broken, and I wish to do something about it. Take your time with Mellario, persuade her to come back; give me a fortnight, and newly refurbished quarters will be waiting for you.”

Doran glowered at his brother, who was not even one to admit to his faults, less to see to the mend, and that was closer to a formal apology than Oberyn could ever get. All in all, he was not averse to risks as it was rumoured, he simply took caution against losing; but he knew as well that nothing ventured, nothing gained.

“I'll take your offer; nothing unwiser than following your advices, but it's not the first time I play the fool for her.” Doran paused. “Please don't make me regret about it.”

Oberyn beamed a winsome smile. “You won't, I promise.”

“Keep an eye on him while I am away, will you?” The Prince of Dorne patted on Ellaria's hand. “Hard job, I am afraid, but I'd love to have back my kingdom and my brother whole.”

“I am not a silly five-years-old!”

“No, you are the dreaded Red Viper of Dorne: stop whining.” Doran warmed to a smile. “I am glad me you decided to take a step forward. The two of you are welcome to keep on trying for a child when I am back; your lovemaking is not nearly as jarring as your fights.”

Ellaria blessed her dark skin, the one boon bestowed her by her Sand Dornish father; with a Lyseni fair complexion, she would have turned beet purple on the spot. Even after quite a long time in Sunspear, being actually _heard_ was something she had yet to come to pact with.

Mellario kept strictly to her wilful seclusion, and refused to come back even when a formal occasion would call for her presence in Sunspear, so bit by bit Ellaria had taken up her duties and now met with Doran almost daily as acting lady to all end and purpose. Not that she had ever put mind to that before, but being heard by someone she esteemed and who looked at her as a valued member of his own household, not as a lowly bastard, was an entirely different matter.

The Princes' room were right one beneath the other, on the same side of the tower, the coolest at night and since openwork shutters and flimsy curtains purpose was shading from day scorching blaze they were unfastened past dusk to let in every passing breeze. If she had to agree with Oberyn the Lady Mellario herself was quite on the loud side, she had also to acknowledge the Prince of Dorne's stunning command of Valyrian and could no longer delude herself that coaxing Oberyn into using it rather than the Common Tongue would work seamlessly.

Doran Martell being the reigning Prince of Dorne was not making it any easier.

\--o--

As soon as he walked into his inner rooms with Mellario on his arm he regretted it. How many times Oberyn as a boy had promised, smiled sweetly, then hell brook lose?

She stepped forward: his wife was not cowed easily. “Exquisite... Craftmanship. A work of art, indeed.” Doran Martell drew in a sharp breath. “Your brother's own idea of making amends, no mistake.”

He hurried to her side “Mellario, forgive me. You know how he is like: I am sure my brother meant well.” Unfortunately, a well-intentioned Oberyn's disrupting potential was in no way less fearsome than the one of Oberyn crying havoc. “I'll have them removed soon.”

“Don't.” With the same jolt Mellario spun to him, pooled her hanging sleeves about her shoulders, tossed back her head and began unpinng her coiled braids. “You'd better behave from now on: were I to crash these, it doesn't bear thinking about what he could find out of more unspeakably outrageous.”


	24. Sands' snake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On Oberyn Martell's outstretched notion of parenting time.

Tyene's visit appointed time was drawing near, and a raven from Sunspear could only herald her next arrival. Lynette got ready a simple yet comfortable cell, for the child though baseborn was still a Prince's offspring, and had moved there her favourite chair, whose moss coloured velvet upholstery was painstakingly embroidered in the Reach fashion with lifelike flowers: the ones her daughter liked best, some of them wrought by Tyene herself. After her daily duties were done she entered the darkening room, lounged on the window seat, graced by the westering sun gleams and broke the letter seal.

She skimmed through stock greetings to the meat of it.

_I am a man of my word: in a moon's turn you will see Tyene again. She and her sisters are looking forward to meeting you. Would you be so kind as to arrange lodgings for all of them,_

Was he dumping his whole litter on her? Lynette had not anticipated him turning up with his other children in tow, less them staying too, then again she had a whiff that bowing to customs was not Oberyn Martell's strong suit, and all in all she did not mind a glimpse of her daughter’shalf-sisters; yet the news took her aback.

_... Fit for five princesses, heirs to a Great House, with all the customary trimmings?_

Five? the Prince had kept himself busy lately, desperate for a male heir, she would have believed had she not known the Dornish seldom held bias for sons over daughters. Besides, no matter Rhoynar inheritance law subtleties, how could five girls be the heirs of the same House? It did make no sense; all the more, when Oberyn himself wasn’t. Anyway, as long as he was willing pay for their upkeep, it was not for her to raise objections: that would rather put the Septry treasurer in a good mood. Lynette went on reading.

_Obara is my eldest, and had to go through her mother's loss recently, a sad story I fear she will never get over nor forgive, while Nymeria's one lives beyond the Narrow Sea; it would be unfair of me to rob them of what Tyene can get. Before I left with her, you may recall we agreed all my daughters should enjoy the same opportunities. Please take under your wings them too: they lacked a loving woman's hand for too long, and I trust they will greatly benefit from your attentive care and guidance._

She squelched a nagging voice putting forward he was blatantly, brazenly, shamelessly asking her to mother all his whelps. Over time Lyntte had come to gather that she had suffered little to no consequence for the one lapse in her vows, her one and only sin because of his name and his House sway at the Targaryens' court; she ought to be grateful to the Seven, and could as well bear the burden of his many for a short while.

_Sarella is well cared for by her mother, who just called upon us at Sunspear and now is sailing to the Jade Sea, but since my youngest is always following her sisters in whichever they do, or as they like to put it, meddles where she does not belong, she decided to come along. The Prince of Dorne got her to agree she is too little to travel much far, but she has already seen Ibben, the Summer Isles and whatnot, and replied soundly the Reach can't possibly qualify as such._

_They are so very different from each other, but Doran persists all my little Sands took after me._

_For completeness sake, my current paramour, a Sand as well, is with child._

Had he sired so many by-blows as to leave out one? The litter runt, so to speak, likely by the lowest of the low, not even worth a line with her name. Lynette felt sorry for the girl.

_The fifth moppet is Arianne Nymeros Martell, heir to Sunspear and Princess of Dorne, daughter to my brother Doran by Mellario of Norvos. I owe her much and more; without my niece, I would have never had taste of how it's like being a father, and I am very fond of her. Will you please take good care of her as well?_

_Her parents are still on civil terms, but strained at best, and her family atmosphere scarcely agrees with a child; sometimes they are just too busy picking at each other to care much about her. I always poured oil on their choppy waters, but I am ill suited to persuade Doran not to foster his son with the Yronwoods, or to convince Mellario she should approve of it, as you most certainly understand. At least I prevailed upon them a change of air will do my niece good. My brother and his wife could use some time for themselves, take my advise for once and hopefully sort out the mess with a second honey moon._

Lynette shook her head. She doubted not the youngest Prince too had much and more to sort with his paramour – _current_ , as the very word to mark such a flimsy relationship rang too official and settled down to his ears!

_This is why I asked for princely accommodation; the girls are not as spoiled as to crave for fancy luxury items, even if Nym could use a spare cell and roughspun clothes for a change, but my brother and liege is keen on Arianne having all the trappings befitting her rank. I promised to treat Tyene on a par with her sisters; she and her cousin are of an age, have been sharing everything from bedtime tales to childhood illnesses since they first met, and they will not have it otherwise: they are so close Doran dubbed them the twins._

_Would you please accommodate Arthur as well?_

Did he father a son too? He should know the Septry catered for girls only. Another little Sand, she’d wager.

_He is Tyene's snake..._

Lynette went over the sentence again. His angled, small Citadel hand was as elegant as neat: no mistake, it read _Tyene's snake_ . She tried to wrap her mind around it: Arthur was not one of the Prince's Sands, but a snake. Seven have mercy, what could her daughter want with a snake?

_... Tyene's snake, and the cutest coiled thing ever, with an uncanny penchant for snug, funny hideaways, and now he is winding around the inkwell neck and trying to go at my quill; if he bits even this last one, he will leave me no choice but to dip his tail and use the tip as a nib, which would rather spoil his bejewelled scales. Nymeria has an odd fancy to amethyst and cream: I am quite sure she chose him as Tyene's nameday present because of his Dayne colouring, though it was Obara who named him after the fellow Dornishman and best swordsman Westeros ever had. As to our daughter, she should better stop goading him into mischief and peeking at your letter, or she is soon getting a warning ink splotch on her nose._

_Just keep Arthur off the rookery and everything will be fine; he is still a baby, and cannot swallow a raven whole. Sorry to bother you, but she beseeched so sweetly, and for all my efforts, Tyene would not accede to be parted from her pet. I am glad to apprise you she is growing up an independent, strong willed little lady whom I am confident you will be proud of._

~~_On wings swifter than wind,_ ~~

~~_Wildly, wantonly, wickedly yours_ ~~

_See you soon, and may the Seven's blessing shine on you._

_Unbent, unbroken, unbowed._

_O. N. M._

_PS: I guess the latter is a more proper address to a Septa than my usual closing._

_PPSS: How often do Mander barges ply to your Septry? I am to set up a regular shipping of blood oranges crates and wintercakes boxes for the girls._

Five strong willed, and by her lights spoiled rotten little princesses, among them the heir to Dorne, and a baby snake on top. Lynette folded the letter and headed for the Sept, where she lit a candle on every altar. She had feared her daughter could be overlooked, and not loved enough, she knew better than trusting his sweet, reassuring words; she had been so very wrong. The Red Viper of Dorne did have a broad notion of family, demanded and took equal good care of all his kin, be they little Dorne Princesses, his own little ones, or little snakes.

Partaking in the Martells’ family life would make for a thrilling experience, and she was fully aware she would soon need all the help the Seven could lend her, and she'd better pray for it before hell got loose.

Back in her cell, Lynette began penning down her answer.

_Rest assured, all of your little snakes will be welcome here._


	25. Elia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Doran has the last word, as his usual.

Doran had summoned him for apparently no reason: hardly ever had he left Ellaria's side - in utmost honesty he had never spent a whole night away - and he could not figure out for dear life which mishap prompted the Prince of Dorne's attention. Oberyn cracked open the solar door and cast his brother an askew look while a shaft of harsh light from an ajar blind caught his sharp features.

“How are they?” Doran enquired solicitously.

Oberyn cut him short. “The baby and Ellaria are doing well enough, as you and most of Dorne already know.”

“I do.” Doran kept staring at him.

Oberyn snorted; it was not like his brother giving anything away. “If so, why would you ask?”

“I thus take your newborn daughter will be named soon.” The Prince of Dorne put forth non-committally. “Have you come up with a suitable name yet?”

Here they were. Always closeted, chary Doran. A by-blow's name was of no political concern, and should be left out of the big game. That much, at least. _Bastards had to score some advantages._

Oberyn squared up his shoulder: he would fight every inch.

“Her name shouldn't worry you: the Red Keep it's not likely to take issue, whatever we choose, if they even got wind of it. I doubt Robert Baratheon cares to know his own get names: why should he bother with mine?”

“I agree King's Landing will not easily notice, if we keep to discretion. Even so, it is still my wish to attend in my official capacity to her naming in the light of the Seven and award my niece a Martell name.”

Now that was a political event, and too great an honour to be refused, Oberyn knew; but he had already a name for his daughter. A Martell name as well. His sister's.

_Not politic at all._

\--o--

In Dorne it was deemed ill luck to choose a baby's name before birth, and of such Arianne had convinced Tyene, but that did not stop the others from filling their lists. Sarella's roll was long, her names longer, and likely to knot every tongue from the deep sands to the Wall and beyond, while Nymeria took a sudden interest to family trees: her own and related lines of Volantene Old Blood, which would turn in handy, Oberyn supposed, in the twice unlikely oddity Ellaria grew disturbingly fond of an Uller name and he elected to pander Doran paying homage to his own house.

He reckoned Obara's pick quite good, yet weirdly reminding of Lord Armen's favoured horses, for at the Hellholt they did not call them 'Star' or 'Wind' like sensible people would, but 'Danyra the Undefeated' or 'Maegoran the Magnificent'. Oberyn strongly doubted Ellaria could much appreciate the nice ring of little Dan or baby Meg, and she would stand within her full right to claw his eyes out, had he only hinted at names taken from her father's stables.

He had still not voiced any preference, lest another spat follow – a curse on his short temper! – and he lose for true mother and child both, before even knowing if a boy or a girl, for even mellow Ellaria could remember on occasion she was an Uller by half, and he didn't care to make sure whether it was the mad one or the worse.

The name – _her name_ \- came to him unbidden, yet it had been gnawing at the back of his mind, haunting him, sunken in a sea of sorrow but struggling to float up ever since.

\--o--

He prevailed upon Ellaria he should stay at delivery; she was not much thrilled at the notion, but far less than Oberyn loathed the idea of being left out.

“Four daughters, and none of them even knew they had a father for most of their life. That's not going to happen ever again: this time, I will be there and take responsibility from the start.”

“That's most unusual, my prince.” The maester respectfully stifled a sigh. Oberyn had been his joy and his despair both: Caleotte, still in charge of the Water Gardens, had tended a larger number of children than any of his fellows, but none of his pupils had proved himself half as brilliant nor unrulier. He had been trying for years to keep the little prince from what he was not supposed to do, and ended on the losing side more often than not; now the scrawny nestling had grown into the infamous Red Viper of Dorne and he knew better than arguing with him.

“Yet the mischievous brat, sneaking where you do not belong.” Snorted the midwife. “Men only get in the way at childbirth.”

Oberyn flashed his brightest smile, unfazed by her bluntness, granted by profession and long acquaintance both: Lyra was only a few years older than them and had been fostered at the Gardens with Oberyn and Elia.

“Am I to take you do not consider Maesters true men, or that they have no business attending a birth?”

Lyra took no notice, Oberyn was too clever by half and she would not let him sway her. “She will be to busy too look after you, in case as per usual you do something stupid.”

“Such as fainting. I am not going to do anything like that, Lyra, trust me.”

“Trust you? I have been knowing you for too long. Spare me the shit about blood and battlefield: have you ever been by the birthing bed before?”

“Most battles are shorter. I was there at Rhaenys' birth, which was not an easy one: I couldn't trust Pycelle in the least.”

“Didn't you trust the archmaester's skill?” asked Ellaria, dumbfounded.

“Far be it from me to doubt the Citadel.” Sneered Oberyn. “I had sound ground to mistrust the Lannisters, though. The Hand was no short of a hawker crying his wares and kept parading his daughter around like a procurer, as if the Prince were not married, as if my sister were nothing at all. It was not like Tywin to content himself with putting the girl into Rhaegar's bed, he had no need to buttress his authority with the shaky influence of mistress to a fickle prince: he wanted a crown to match Cersei's golden locks. Elia's health was never firm, who can heal can also kill, and Lannister had Pycelle tucked in his pocket.”

As for Aegon, after Harrenhal he had been banned from the royal court, and he owed Elia his very life, otherwise he could have shared the Starks' lot. At the feast following the tourney, eyes darted from the royal dais to the Northmen's settees, murmurs surged up to a roar and as suddenly hushed to a disquieted lull; soon after he sat down, the King yelled. “Out with everyone. Out!” Even as the frightened courtiers scurried away he turned to his son with an ill-boding fleer. “Not you. I shall hear what you would say.”

Oberyn, purporting to help from the dais his sister, sallower than usual, rounded on Rhaegar, scarcely stole a squint at him and whacked the Prince across the face. He turned his back and did not twitch a muscle at the clang of six swords drawn as one, echoing off in the Hall of a Hundred Hearths. Even his uncle; even Arthur. Well and so: by rights it should fall to them to hack him down. _Not before I slay the fucker: a scratch is all I ask for._

Rhaegar stayed them with a gesture and his voice rang in the now empty expanse.

“Prince, listen if you would. An explanation is needed, and I would be glad...”

He answered to the encroaching darkness without a backward glance. “Your sire demanded for it; none is due to me. I need nothing from  _you_ , but I would hear, and gladly, whatever your steel has to say and sooner trade words with your sword.”

Rhaegar, so good at leafing books and descrying foggy prophecies, so helpless at reading men, so blind to reality: he would have made an awful King. Oberyn wheeled and pinned his grim gaze on him.

“Are you not enough of a man, that you need to dress up your whims as fated by doom?”

Elia went to her knees before the King, her gown pooling in purple waves while her pale lips pleaded for her brother's life. Aerys was overly jealous of the attention his heir could win, and after Rhaegar's bout of madness had shocked everyone, he set to outstage his son by proving himself wise and unorderly merciful.

“Good to know someone here still remembers who is the King of the Seven Kingdoms.” He cracked a smile to the Princess with a warmness unknown to his own Queen: but Elia had birthed a girl, thus providing who would sit the Iron Throne after Rhaegar, be he Rhaenys' uncle or a not yet born brother, with a fitting Targaryen bride, and could well avail herself of the worthwhile credit she had gained. “Your steeds are said swifter than any other horse and tireless; my beloved daughter earned yourself the chance to attest to it. Let your name never be heard again out of the forlorn sands of Dorne, if you can even reach them. Come morrow ravens will carry your felony to every castle, holdfast and keep, and every good man in the realm will be on you, to bring the King's justice upon a traitor. You may go unharmed, till then.”

She glanced at him over her shoulder. He stepped down and bowed: to her, and her only. In Elia's steely countenance more an order than a plea. _Now, you fool._

Oberyn stalked to the stables, called his horses ready within the hour, asked for his squire and some trusted man, justly trusting no one would bat a lid at another of his nighttime sally. He took his saddlebags and hurried to the maester turret: if he knew a thing, just in time for the ravens pasture.

“I am sorry to come to you at such an hour, maester, but I am in a haste: I need a bird to Sunspear.”

“I understand your pressing necessity, my prince, but ravens can't fly by night.”

“Archmaester Wagrave wouldn't have granted me a black iron link, had not I known.” He pressed on with a tight smile. “I am not going to spend the night within this ill-omened walls, nor alone for that matter. I will fly the raven first thing came morning.” Oberyn filled two cups from his wineskin and took a seat. “Drink with me, maester. That's for your trouble.”

The maester had no choice but to accept.

“To old Walgrave! Any fresh news about him? I was relayed the Archmaester is no longer what he used to be.” He shook his head and savoured his wine. “How do you like my sour, maester?”

“Excellent vintage, if a tad on the strong side.” The maester swigged a deep draught with relish. “Most would fill a goatskin with the vilest wash, who else but a Prince of Dorne would keep in it nectar fit for a royal table?”

“Life is too short to drink bad wines.” Oberyn tipped his head in acknowledgement of a praise he knew well deserved, and poured him some more. “As to royal tables, I'd rather share this worthwhile red with you and enjoy your ravens croaking company than gorge with simpers and lies at tonight banquet. Is it blood soaked ground corn they are feasting on?”

The maester nodded, flattered by his interest – if of a Prince or of a fellow Citadel man he could not say. “Makes the hackles shinier.”

“Always something new worth learning!” Oberyn pulled up his sleeves and offered nonchalantly. “May I help you? Sometimes – time like these – I wish I had never left Old Town.”

The maester spent a rewarding time nattering about his good old days at the Citadel and ailing Walgrave, tending his ravens, and drinking much more than he should have, but it was not like everyday a Prince of the royal blood treated him on a par, blissfully unaware of how mercilessly said Prince soused him and his birds fodder with Dornish strongwine. Oberyn could have laced it with a range of more or less armful concoctions, but a maester would soon notice sweetsleep distinctive taste and as likely spot most poisons. His plan would work better with his unwitting guest groggy from an hangover and the whole murder more quarrelsome than usual, rather than having all them patently ill or straightforward dead.

So the maester went to sleep gloriously drunk on the finest Dornish, and dreamt of the Citadel, where even the son of a tavern wench could rise so high as to befriend a prince. Oberyn hopped down from the rookery, and rode off into the night.

An hour lost, or a day stolen? Maybe a foul hazard, a desperate gamble, yet an hour would make no matter – only as to  _where_ they would catch up on him; he could as well take a wench to bed, get some sleep afterwards, march boldly to the block on the morrow, and save everybody the effort – a day –  _whether_ they could. Maybe hiding in the same castle was the right thing to do; Harrenhal was so humongous as to take ages to comb, but he couldn't abide dwelling any longer in the blasted place.

Then it was just one mad breathless race, hard on South, with little rest for men and animals, Dornish scarves wound tightly about their faces against the dust stirred up by the hooves constant beat, the Kingsroad ground steadily rising beneath them, and ever on they rode, pushing their enduring horses, furlong after gritty furlong.

“There now, Sand. Quiet.” but as he stroked his whinnying mount's neck, Oberyn's own heart leapt. The sun had plunged into the Sunset Sea and its last glory bloodied the topmost peaks of the Red Mountains, while gloom was already cloaking the folds of their brown and barren slopes. Weary and stiff as he was, after a dusty day the sight was refreshment enough: home. Once in their crags, gullies and ravines, who could find him? Dusk turned the sky violet and soon a bevy of stars shimmered brighter than hammered silver. Home: and air was clearer, and beyond the forbidding ridges he could almost taste the desert clean smell.

By a stars spangled canopy they slept: the windblown tumble of a roofless tower was fitting shelter for the night. They lit no fire, lest it give them away to their pursuer and before dawn the small troop set off briskly. At Summerhall, he could have struck West up the Boneway, but Yronwood needed not Aerys's prompt, and Oberyn pressed on through the Dornish Marches: at High Hermitage they would have tidings of Starfall, and there of the royal family.

In a fit the Mad King decreed the drunkard and his soaked birds could henceforth slake their thirst with wildfire, but he was so disappointed at the news there were no pyromancers in Harrenhal he bid the court back and left for the Red Keep on the spot, thoroughly forgetting about maester, ravens and what they were needed for. Aerys's ire had slacked off to a jape in bad taste; maybe he was the wise one, if only Rhaegar could be as quickly done with the Stark girl.

Once in Sunspear he learned from his uncle's letters Elia was with child, and hoped her husband truly would.

 _Only her poor health could fail her now, but she is used to battle with it since she was a child. Elia is safe as she could be_.  There was more sadness than joy in their marriage, yet it should suit Rhaegar well: a sickly Princess seemed more fitting to a melancholic Prince than a wild she-wolf.

 _Elia is safe as she could be:_ that is, nor the King, nor his erstwhile Hand had a shred of reason to pave the way to Lyanna Stark. Lewyn was right; it was more to Tywin Lannister's style to raze bare his own path to power.

 _Only her poor health could fail her now_ ; for everyone else already did, everyone who should have protected, treasured her, her husband, Oberyn himself had failed Elia and her unborn child.

\--o--

As soon as the baby was presented to her, Ellaria feebly invoked her goddess blessing.

“By the name of the Goddess, and by your own name I swear, I will never fail to protect you, and to her keeping I trust you, for I honour her, our mother, in you, my newborn daughter. May her strength be your shield!”

He took the baby: she was tiny, and and wonderful, as much as allowed by her crumpled features in a birth bruised face, and by flushed skin, hastily wiped off and yet sticky and splotchy. He took in her form, from her wrinkled feet and unbelievably wee toes, yet perfect with nails and all, to a shock of hair so black he had never seen the shiniest, matched with the longest eyelashes ever, and she was beautiful in all and every of her parts.

Oberyn never cared much about gods; if they existed, neither did they, and if they did, they were a useless jape: men were mad and cruel enough on their own. From a merely statistical standpoint, the only one worshipped everywhere and thus worth considering was the Stranger, him of many faces, the Black Goat, the Lord of Silence to whom no hymns were sung and whose name needed not to be spoken. Every man must die, and it would not do to pledge him a new life, for every one was already due to him from the very beginning.

There was one thing he held sacred yet.

“By her name, Elia Nymeros Martell, whom I failed to protect, who was ripped from her children, and by your own name I swear. I will protect you, I will not fail you, nor your mother, whose keeping I trust you to, and treasure you both, for I honour in you, my newborn daughter Elia, my sister's own name. May your mother's strength be your own!”

\--o--

“Am I to remind you that's utterly untoward as well as unheard of for the Prince of Dorne to formally bestow a bastard her name, let alone a Martell one?” Oberyn flared up.

Doran scanned him. “Since when did you abide by rules? Pray tell.”

“It is the closest to being an acknowledged member of House Nymeros Martell; mother honoured so the Daynes, as our most faithful bannermen.” Oberyn explained the obvious: but his brother was so anxious to keep unflinchingly to the safest course, at times he was unconscionably willing to go beyond extremes.

“I owe Ellaria much and more, and you are not going to get any closer to a long term relationship, I'm afraid, so I'd better take the chance as this lucky spell lasts.”

Oberyn bristled. “What it pleases you to call my relationships is none of your concern.”

“With you I always kept to the utmost leniency on the score, you will be so kind as to concede.” Doran cut in sternly, an unwanted edge creeping to his tone, but soon after collected himself to keep his voice level and even more final at that. “I mean to give your daughter's naming the formal endorsement it demands.”

“I doubt Mellario will like it.” Oberyn grinned.

“She will not.” Doran agreed offhandedly, for all the two women went along smoothly, to his amazed relief. Mellario, whose family arms was more of a trade shingle, held far less foibles about blood and line than a Westeros highborn, felt more kinship for his good-brother's paramour, from across the Narrow See like herself, than for any of her noble ladies-in-waiting, and had come to praise her grounding effect on Oberyn. Doran had kept to himself she was a most welcome influence on Mellario too, for Ellaria was as Dornish as she was Lyseni, and from her double outlook she could better and more tactfully than anyone else compare Dorne to the Free Cities, and help his beloved wife to understand, cope with and sometimes mock his Kingdom and its customs.

“She is my problem, not yours.” He waved off the objection. “I will try to chat her up: a baby can't possibly trouble our House more than the troublemaker of you.”

Oberyn caught breath and bit back a sharp retort, aware his rashness would get him nowhere against his brother's unbending mind.

“One of my children is already named after our lady mother, can't you recall?”

“That I know yet.”

“I have a Nymeria in stock, there is another Daenerys at large, which leaves us but Maryam the yellow toad... Wouldn't your princess-froglet Arianne be jealous?”

“Will you ever listen to me, Oberyn?” Doran was short of patience, picked the reddest fruit from the platter by his side, rolled it in on his desk, as to muster a self-possession his brother was so good at shattering, bored on him his keen gaze and claimed with an aggravated sigh. “I am the Prince of Dorne.”

“That's adamant. You are _the_ Prince of Dorne, while I am _a_ Prince of Dorne. A lesson I learnt.”

“Did you now? The hard way.” Doran, his eyes still trained his brother, crushed the orange in his grip. “I am your Prince, your liege, and your House head. You shall hear my will.”

The sudden and purposeful outburst got all of Oberyn's attention, who shot back a challenging look.

_Don't ask me to play by your rules, Doran. I never will._

“So, what's my Prince's will as to my daughter's name?”

“Can't you really guess, brother?”

_You will. By yours own: but we shall play together._

Doran half closed his eyes, and his voice softened to a breath, so faint Oberyn nearly had to read his lips.

“Elia.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Snakes stew](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4370270) by [cortchuzska](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cortchuzska/pseuds/cortchuzska)




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